‘Bulldog Clips’ by Gráinne Tobin

Paired off in the packet, they do that thing
you see in films, the open-mouthed big kiss
of lovers kicking shut the door behind them,
locked together so you’re not supposed to think
of the seventeen people – directors, gaffers and grips,
the cameras, boom, sets and props –
around at this intimate moment,
making a show of these two left alone
with their personal magnetism, attracted,
nay, clipped-on to each other, until one
breaks the seal, and their mouths in profile,
in soft-lit close-up, part, gasp, gulp,
a little fish-like, a little bit Nemo,
grabbing the beloved’s upper lip
between their two, opening and closing
as if they’re chewing, swallowing air,
a pincer action that brings to mind
telltale twelve-year-olds at the junior disco –
Miss! They’re eating the face off each other!

From issue #5: autumn/winter 2017

About the Author
Gráinne Tobin lives in Newcastle ‘where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea’. She has two poetry collections, several contributions to anthologies, plus poems in magazines and archives. She’s been given awards from the Arts Council of Northern Ireland and a residency at the Tin Jug Studio in Birr.