The Irish Writer Leaves Home

by Carmen Mason

How does one explain the perfume steaming
from a timid wrist
the musky scent
the flash of a white instep
Not love    not perfect flesh
but the shame of needing
a giving up    a giving in
a consummation that transfigures
for the moment
that transcends
for the moment

How can I tell my sleeping son
his mother was as brief
and as amazing as a shooting star
on a still    clear    miraculous night
that my leaving like this
without goodbyes
after spitting those acid words
into her questionmark
of a ruined face
is a refusal of everything
that warns me to stay
persist    make do
I am no longer a son of Dublin
There is a world out there
that will now    soon
make me delirious
with its musky
midnight breathing    its
ejaculatory fires
I am in need my son
in demanding need to go

Here is a kiss goodbye

I’ve been writing prose and poetrysince I was six. Won the Ist prize in Seventeen Magazine’s short story contest at 17 and several poetry prizes through the years. I write because I cannot help myself. I write to empty out the thoughts I cannot hold inside a day or hour more.