Ryan Vine
According to the song coming from their car,
these four dudes don’t give a fuck.
The doja – strong as a flattened skunk – 
smells delicious, and I bob my head
instinctively as they pass. I remember 
it’s not as simple as just not giving a fuck.
I know now that the hip-hopper was trying 
to write: I’m scared and I’m lonely and I can’t
believe what the people I love most do
to each other. I want to carve a wet hole
into the skull of my beloved 
and stare into it until I see my face.
I’m pushing a stroller the size of a wheelchair.
My two year old’s munching on browned
apple slices, from which I carefully removed 
the skins this morning so he could hold one
in each hand and easily bite from both. 
It’s not true about trouble, about time:
I haven’t healed. I’m trying to forgive 
myself without the help of a god.
Page 10, Poetry Ireland Review Issue 119
Issue 119

Poetry Ireland Review Issue 119:

Edited by Vona Groarke

Poetry Ireland Review Issue 119 includes new poems by 48 poets including Frank Ormsby, John Kinsella, Rachel Coventry, Aifric Mac Aodha, Gerald Dawe, Alice Miller and Claire Potter. Also included are translations by Richard Begbie and Kirsten Lodge, an essay on Bishop, Lowell, Heaney and Grennan by David McLoghlin, and reviews of Paul Muldoon, Paul Durcan, Sarah Clancy, Medbh McGuckian, Kate Tempest, George the Poet, and many more. The issue also features photography by Hugh O'Conor, Dominic Turner, Sheila McSweeney, Fergus Bourke and John Minihan.