Josephine Corcoran

Two Poems

A dream about Martin Scorsese.
His era of extravagant eyebrows

A mustard-coloured wingback chair

A jaundiced gas fire, nicotine-stained at its centre, unlit:

My bedsit
Avenue Road

– So, says Martin
(manicured nails, cologne like toast burning)

– You have a story?
(jacket immaculate, cufflinks like jewels)

Removes his glasses, tames his eyebrows
(a miniature tortoiseshell comb)

– There is an idea
I’d like to run by you

– So
– So
– So
(a few more times)

– There’s a woman

Martin punches the air, jumps up

– Good! Yes!
Good beginning!

Bangs his fist
on the door

– A woman?
– A woman
– So
– So

What makes him leap
to my window
balloon out the nets?

Who owns the car
sounding its horn
on the street?

I know where I keep
my notebooks
the many
I will buy through the years

Martin is fighting his way
out of yellowing, nylon lace

For the rest of my life
the feeling
the breath
the beginning

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