My Thighs are Cold

My thighs are cold.

As is the pucked sag of my belly,
a cool appendage hanging like
a symbiotic twin from my waist,
with two sons-worth of skin stretch.

My fingers are cold.

As are my toes, their ten plus ten
equalling twenty long digits
that grapple at warmth with
a cadaver’s marblous grip.

Until my morning bed.

There, heat oozes like piety
to every cranny, making
a smug bitch of me, a pup
languishing in self-made heat.

Tá Mo Cheathrúna Fuar

Tá Mo Cheathrúna Fuar

Tá mo cheathrúna fuar.

Is tá mo bholg fuar freisin,
ag luascadh cosúil le
duine breise ó mo chom,
é leathan ó mheáchan mo mhic.

Tá mo mhéara fuar.

Is mo mhéara coise freisin,
fiche lúidín fada,
ag cuardach teasa
le greim an mharbháin.

Go dtí leaba na maidine.

Ansin, leathann teas tríom
cosúil le naofacht,
ag déanamh bitseach díom,
ag sínteoireacht i mo theas féin.