‘Aughrim Street Doomscroll’ by Clíodhna Bhreathnach
Who are those crows? Do watching Black & Tans
still nest up on these roofs? My timeline glows
with posts of other poets winning grants.
I look up at the scaffolded night, the co-
living schemes half-built, then pass
the church, a sign with shout of WET PAINT
hanging still from its syrup-black gates.
A bloom of air in my mouth’s blue mask,
I float down the street’s brick stream
a living bog-body. A passing Garda grunts
and I stare back, a crowning lump
up my throat of gone-off screams –
I am two fools, I know, for despairing,
& for saying so, in fucking poetry.
From issue #12: autumn/winter 2021
About the Author
Clíodhna Bhreathnach is from Waterford. Her poems have featured in Channel, The Common Breath, The Momentist, Silver Apples, and Tír na nÓg Magazine. She was also shortlisted for the Fish Publishing Lockdown Prize.
