You ask me why
I put myself through that,
as if I jumped out of a plane
14,000 feet of fear and longing.
As if I were a camel pacing
two-toed, unhindered into
the eye of the needle.
As if I plucked the thorn
instead of the rose, wrist
of scars no more than a tattoo.
As if I pulled my heart out
of my chest, placed it bloodied
raw on the supermarket shelf,
beside the dead animals,
behind the clear glass.
Watched it being chosen
by a stranger who would eat it,
not love it and turn it gently
in his palm, blood soaking his wrist.
As if I ran naked into the waves,
the voices of my people an echo
whilst I drowned in song.
As if I walked with my glass of Douro
into a tornado, a silk scarf at my neck.
As if I tore open a parcel of wild seeds,
threw them on my mowed lawn then
turned my back to fill the dishwasher.
As if a sunflower can turn to the shade,
or an autumn leaf can stay upon its branch.
I did not put myself through that,
it shone through me like I was
made of stained glass, for stained I am.
And yet you see how light transforms
and often chooses us.
Bobbie Sparrow recently published her debut poetry collection The Weight of Blood with Yaffle press. She is a widely published poet with poems in journals and anthologies. Her work has been placed in several well-known competitions. She lives in rural Galway, loves swimming in lakes and believes curiosity keeps her alive.