Gearóid Mac Lochlainn


The doors are locked tight,

blinds dropped like shutters.


I’m at the table, heart pounding,


The clock ticks in the corner,

huge arachnid

slowly cracking its cocoon…

I’m waiting for words,

feverish for ink that will jet

like scalding water from a geyser.

I’m shaking.

I know I will have to mop up

before morning,

before the neighbors

spy the tell-tale rivulets

that trickle and spill

under the front door,

out into the street.