by Mick Corrigan
They will make soup of your marrow and gravy of your bones,
hunt you across the rain dark roofs like Manhattan Gothic or New York Noir,
your stature reduced with every shouted insult, every laughing affront,
until after drinking heavily in your tiny apartment, a tumble down the stairs
will lead to your lynching with glee and a will,
muscles tensed as they drag you to a weeping death,
while blue eyed kids eat candyfloss and drink real lemonade
in the places where furnaces no longer fire,
where metal like lava no longer pours,
where red lipped earth no longer coughs up coal,
where the calcified heart succumbs to rust
and bitter herbs feed angry men out looking for a fight.
Then, in the depths of deeper, bleaker years,
when smiling in public becomes an offence
and return to education means time in a camp,
people, in passing, will whisper like prayer;
“Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses yearning to breathe free”…………….
Mick Corrigan has been writing poems since Moses was a boy and has been published in a range of periodicals, anthologies, magazines and on-line journals. He is in his fifties (at least he thinks they’re his fifties, they could be someone else’s). He divides his time equally between Ireland, Crete and the vast open space in the back of his head. His first collection, “Deep Fried Unicorn”, was released in to the wild in 2014 by Rebel Poetry Ireland.
You can reach him here:
Facebook: Michael Corrigan