Self-Obsessed. | Saturdays are Days for the Heart. | Naked Brunch. by Leah Keane (she, her)

l am the sick dog panting in the shelter.
I am the hand reaching out to feed.
I throw the stick and I chase after it.
I place it back at my own feet.

I have been kicked.
I have lain across the floor
and punched myself square in the face.
I have gotten up to snort my own bloody nose.

In the mirror I have awarded the colour red to me.

I have deemed myself worthy of saffron.
I have designed my all-time favourite recipes.
I have made myself sick. I have coughed myself up.
I have been personally offended by my own ignorance.

Nevertheless, I will continue to crack my own egg.

No one has ever been more obsessed than I am with myself,
which is a tragedy because I'm not even that pretty.
But I have saved myself more times than I can count.
I have been rescued by the notion that I cannot be abandoned.

I will always have myself.

Saturdays are Days for the Heart.
Today we are scattered across in joy.
Overlooking Lady's Beach,
we have seized this morning sun.

Drinking coffee and feeling lucky,
all the week's wild complexity
slows down to the tune of a major sea.

A pigtailed girl playing gaelic with her dad
runs to stop an overshot kick from rolling into the tide.
A little lad licking a 99 trots back to his mother,
decked out in neon Nikes and a black Fila tracksuit.
A man is one of four dogs, chasing an assortment of terriers
and soon-to-be-king charles cavaliers.

Spanish guitars have travelled far
and into the hands of a member of the wizarding world.
Dumbledore dried out, finally. Back from a stint in a local Sahara.

Taking a break from the broken,
we bathe now in the light of the tunnel.
Endlessly fragile, and absolutely made for each other.

Naked Brunch.
after William Burroughs

What lies on the end of my fork?
Something I caught

Now I must eat
the naked truth

It’s a nice day for a canapĂ©
clang of a metal tray

Tossed into the air they go
my wasabi-stuffed habaneros

City living is shitty living
one resounding coffee slurp

All of a sudden the place goes dark
could be shocking I suppose

But it’s just some black meat
slithering past the window

I sit and watch
it weave into my soup

The whole room is indifference
does it make any difference?

The black meat leaves
trailing atrophy

I look down to see
that the bowl has been washed clean.

Leah Keane is from Castlerea, County Roscommon. She graduated with a BA in English, German and Creative Writing from NUI Galway in 2018, and is now doing an MA in English Literatures and Literary Theory at the University of Freiburg in Germany. Her work has been published in Poetry Ireland Review, Skylight 47, Green Carnations, Chasing Shadows, The Stony Thursday Book, Drawn to the Light and ROPES among others. She is currently working towards her first collection.

Instagram: @l.keane113

Twitter: @supatroopa97