I caught you disposing of a dead bird –
remembered you once buried a stray cat
we’d made a pet of, before I got home –
so many useful little censorships.
I don’t believe I have surrendered nor
set back sixty years of feminism
if I admit, in this poem, right now,
that I fell for you all over again.
I could have written about fate or God
whatever unseen forces plot our course.
How we don’t get to glimpse very often
what it is that eases our way, shields us.
But let’s call it love, identify how
we shelter one another day to day.
Maureen Curran is from Donegal, Ireland. Her poems have appeared in Boyne Berries, Crannóg, Envoi, Poetry Bus, Revival, the Stony Thursday Book, Skylight 47, online at Honest Ulsterman, Lake Poetry, Southword, Spontaneity, and Word Bohemia. She blogs with her group here and tweets @maureenwcurran