Ava Mullally
Poetry
Haunted
I remember the days when we would dance in the garden,
where nothing bothered us.
Now you’re dancing at college parties with him,
while colored light lure his hands into your strawberry hair.
I wonder if you still have the hoodie that I gave to you
the day before you left,
or if you banished it to the back of your closet.
I can envision it sitting there, collecting dust, crying out for you.
Your perfume still haunts my bedsheets.
I refuse to wash them, scared that my memory of you will wash away too.
My head gets foggy thinking about it,
just like the airport streets where I dropped you off at dawn.
The words I said to you that night still poison the air around me.
I can’t take them back.
I can’t unpack the bags you left.
Your ghost lingers in my room.
Train Tracks
As I closed the brown door, the flashbacks flooded through my head.
My memories swirled with Autumn leaves
and the taste of the last twist on a sugar cone,
as gravity pulled me away from here.
My fairy lights, that were long packed away, still flashed in my eyes.
I can still feel the stuffed hedgehog against my chest.
Thoughts rolled around my head,
like how I once rolled down the hill above the church, watching the clouds pass.
My walls absorbed all of my late night phone calls
and my rug took in everyone’s foot prints.
My gold mirror reflected back the events of all of my sleepless nights,
and my bed memorized the curve of my body.
I said my last goodbyes and I shut the door,
sealing all of the memories inside of my Russell Street house,
and letting the train tracks lead me away from here.
The wind whispers her name. The autumn foliage dances below her leather boots. Pulling her sweater closer, begging for warmth, she wishes summer would come sooner. The golden leaves remind her of his kind eyes. The birds flying south are a constant reminder of how he left.
Her mother calls her inside. The girl’s senses are flooded with the sweet smell of apple pie, his favorite. Mother sets the table, skipping over the chair on her left. “Is he ever coming back?” asks the girl with a glimmer of hope. The blissful October sun makes the tears in Mother’s eyes sparkle. “I don’t think so, honey.”
Irish Pennant
The Case of the Weeping Willows
Her hair covered his lap like ivy covering a brick wall. Half of her face was burned from the July sun beating down on her cotton skin.
He leaned against a willow tree, painting her portrait. He wanted to capture every freckle on her chest, every fleck of green in her eyes.
The roses envied the blush of her cheeks, and the robin glared as her mate sang a song about the woman’s lips. The sun made her silk dress glimmer green.
How enticing it was to trail a hand down her dress. But the painter stayed under the willow tree, not daring to touch the creation below him,
yearning to reach out and place a cool hand on her overheated cheek.
Only in Another World
Your mind is as open as the field in front of us.
If only I could roam freely through your land,
then, might I know what you have planned.
But you keep brushing me away like dust.
Your skin is as smooth as silk.
If only I were a silk mercer,
then, might I be less than just an observer.
But you keep pushing me away, forcing me to rethink.
Your heart is as pure as crystals.
If only I were a jeweler,
then, might I know what it’s like to be ocular.
But you keep throwing me away like missiles.
August 16th
Violet haze washes over
Pigtails that dance in the wind.
The grassy field cushions your fall,
Mouth still sticky from lemonade.
Holding tight onto the tire swing as you go higher,
You chase after rabbits and pluck caterpillars from trees
While holding chalk in one hand, doodling your dreams.
Manchineel
I aimlessly shook your tree,
sucking sweet nectar without saying grace.
The golden sun grows your roots and ripens your fruit.
I take a bite of your beech apple.
What was once sweet
ignites a burning forest in my throat.
Your amber
covers me.
The serpent in your boughs sings my name,
Leaving me no choice but to reach out for you.
Your poison hides deep within until
your resin blisters my skin.
I suck sweet venom.
Your roots wrap around me and pull me in.
The dirt stays under my fingernails
no matter how hard I scrub.
Your bark will always be scarred,
with my name etched into it.
Beowulf's Grasp
I was weighed down by armor,
hidden under your cloak.
You sewed my mouth shut,
wrapping me in hemp.
You scraped my birch skin,
until I was engulfed in flame.
Poison filled my goblet
as you sang down my throat.
Jewels fell into my mouth
and cracked my teeth.
You sat on your dais,
bidding serpents wrap around my neck.
You struck your dagger,
breaking my empty plate.
I reached for you,
but my fingers met your metal shield.
Broken Banns
I pull the rope,
your force splitting us in two.
You left me frayed,
my wounds to fester.
Your poison crowds my veins
and medicine burns.
I swallow your dagger,
coursing pins through me.
You granted me free land,
but it’s covered in your tracks.
I soak in your honey,
planting my feet in your soil.
The water darkens.
Your storm prevails.
The saltwater tides roll in,
breaking my fever.
As I rise for air,
the sun scorches my wounds.
Rose Water for Spleen
You fed me yellow lies served upon a golden platter.
I devoured them, becoming a fire,
preying on what I could not see in myself.
You calmed my fears with promises
like a broken stitch.
I followed behind you,
dancing with your shadow.
To you, I was only your chore,
but I gave you my best paints
and colored your grey sky.
I hollowed myself for you
while you lived in another story.
I swallowed my black bile,
allowing lithe boxers to look down upon me.
I submerged my head and drowned the rose in phlegm.
All I want from you in return
is my old self.
The Siren
I drape silk around my waist,
and decorate my neck in gold.
My string of jewels chimes in the wind.
My chest is sheathed in lace and rose.
I extract oil from the spikenard to anoint myself,
hoping the Earth exhales it.
I bathe in sugar and lavender,
my attempt to lure the bees.
Their hum reverberates in my head.
Honey is discarded on me,
tangled in my hair and embedded into my skin,
their version of a gift.
I water my flowers day and night.
I sing them the song of Achilles,
and beg them to stay alive.
Senescence
I selfishly take the rose’s color,
and paint it over myself.
I steal lilies and lotus for my perfume,
and beckon the wind to carry my scent.
I pluck the rose garden until I’m bleeding,
and the thrones become sewn into my fingers.
I open my hands but you repel me in abhorrence.
They’re decaying and held on by a single thread.
The sun has drawn lines on me,
A souvenir from my days of youth.
I douse myself in olive leaves,
for my arms scrape you with every brush.
I beg the hill to not swallow the sun.
I plead the sand to stop falling.
I pray for the waves to stop crashing,
and I wish for the soil to stop sinking.
He shakes the apple tree,
causing apples to fall at my feet.
Leaves cover me,
and roots intertwine like our hands.
Butterflies adorn me,
as orchids bloom.
Wisteria arches over us,
casting a lavender haze.
I dress myself in jasmine,
and tie our vines together.
Rain soaks our knot,
making it greener.
Fusion
Through The Grapevine
I lay in indented Earth,
and revel in your discarded warmth.
A breeze creeps through the window.
The sweetness makes me ache.
Your clothes are embedded with memories.
I haven’t moved your boots from the foot of our bed.
The cardinal wakes me.
He has your eyes.
The fire wraps around me on brisk nights.
The wind creeks the house,
and I look to the door, thinking you’re home.
Only a gray haze hangs over my days.
