Mary Noonan

Two poems


For your first, mortuarial
anniversary, I managed it,
my finest trick: I became you

yes, I pulled off the skin-
changing thing by flinging
myself up in the air and banging

back down on my left
arm: banjaxed. I was
a barmy, splintered Boney

in a black sling as they drove me
to your memorial mass,
fuming at having to be zipped up

buckled in, shovelled out,
turning the air foul with my
locker-room bawling

raining hexes on all drivers,
threatening blue murder,
boxing the enemy with one arm tied

around my neck/your neck,
head-butting the sun, moon and
stars for their part in the conspiracy.

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