Laundry
Here in the Indian foothills,
I share a house with a man from Greece
who speaks no English perfectly,
disappears for days on a motorbike,
leaves his laundry on the low make-shift line,
grieving an absent sun.
Side by side they hang: his shirt, my summer dress
as if they know each other well
and when he returns, smelling of engine oil,
monsoon, rolled brown cigarettes,
we have no formal language
to share our separate joy.
Drip-drip on the balcony,
a queer, white pool gathers below.
He holds at a sleeve, looks to sky.
I open my palm for signs of rain.
*Annemarie Ní Churreáin: “Originally from the North-West of Ireland, I now live in Dublin City where I spend many hours in front of a laptop making poems. In 2011, I completed an M. Phil in Creative Writing at the Oscar Wilde Centre, Trinity College Dublin. My work has appeared on stage, screen, in journal publications and in galleries. I’m presently working on my first collection of poetry.”
