‘Best Friends’ by Ger Duffy

I imagined her soul as a small white electrical fuse,
the kind you put into a plug. She was a tomboy,
short-haired, freckled. Her family were Gaelgeoirs,
she addressed me – An bhfuil tu sásta? An bhfuil?
I would run away. She always caught me, put me
in a headlock, knuckled the top of my head.
Her naked body was found several miles away
in a wooded hilly area, hands and feet bound.
I found out these details much later. She was
coming out of Houlihan’s shop with a lemon sherbet
Dip Dab, a blue Cortina stopped alongside her.
The driver leaned over, swung the door open.
She sat in his car. She sat in his car! Neighbours
said afterwards that she was smiling, so no one
thought it strange, at three o’clock on a Wednesday
in late spring. A year or so later, I saw her again
in her red elephant dress in her front garden.
I shouted her name, when she turned she looked
nothing like my friend. She was from the orphanage
on a weekend visit, my friend’s dress was too big on her.

From issue 18: autumn/winter 2024

About the Author
Ger Duffy’s poems have appeared in PNR, Poetry Ireland Review, Under the Radar, Southword, The Ekphrastic Review, The Stony Thursday Book, The Bangor Literary Journal, The Milk House, Washing Windows III & IV, The Verve Anthology of Eco-Poetry, The Weight of Motherhood anthology and To Light the Trails. She is a Pushcart nominee.