Saoirse at the fridge
Saoirse weeps at the fridge door
removing nothing, the cold air
on her tears, her feet in socks
from Singapore Air. There’s a pink stain
on the shelf where the milk sits seeping
and outside the window someone
is sky-writing something in the sky
she cannot read – there are two planes, one
undoing the writing of the other.
No one knows she is there,
even she herself feels more like a butterfly
dreaming it is Saoirse…surely
when it woke up it would feel
as light as air! And full of fear.
Quickly, lay your load – those eggs
that hatch into hunger machines.
She is hungry, oh she is hungry,
but does not want to think about for whom.
She picks out her coldest onion,
her tears tight on her face.