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Diarmuid ó Maolalaí

The Black Dress with Polka Dots

that You Wore to the Cat Cafe


the poems I write

aren't worth giving a name.

I think a lot now

about coming home from canada

after 3 months of carrying you in my pocket.

there is a whole soul there,

small as a rabbit,

light as the sun on piano keys,


to spend the day in bed together

with red weather

like an animal at the window.

you were a scientist

in a dress that slid over your shoulder and you

were so shy and so


and so happy when you saw a cat.

I could have bought you gifts of rose and myrrh

and purple silk and

pigeonfeathers. my fear

of being distant

drove us apart

like china

in a shop

owned by a helpful lady.

I think I fell in love

when you spent all night talking about cells

and seemed to love them.

I think

I could have dropped a glass of water

and you would have been able

to pick it up for me.





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