Tuesday Poem

Belfast Confetti

Suddenly as the riot squad moved in it was raining
marks,
Nuts, bolts, nails, car-keys. A fount of broken type. And
the explosion
Itself – an asterisk on the map. This hyphenated line, a burst
of rapid fire . . .
I was trying to complete a sentence in my head, but it kept
stuttering,
All the alleyways and side-streets blocked with stops and
colons.


I know this labyrinth so well – Balaklava, Raglan, Inkerman,
Odessa Street –

Why can’t I escape? Every move is punctuated. Crimea Street.
Dead end again.

A Saracen, Kremlin-2 mesh. Makrolon fae-shield. Walkie-
talkies. What is

My name? Where am I coming from? Where am I going?
A fusillade of question-marks.

by Ciaran Carson
from The Irish for No
Gallery Press, Old Castle

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