Xenomelia

Susannah Dickey

I visit the home of a man who is recently deceased.

He opens the door and I go to take off my shoes –

he says, “Don’t worry, that kind of thing doesn’t bother

me anymore.”

When he takes my hand I feel aware of my skin

as being like flabby batter on my skeleton.

It feels loose,

a dusty garment hanging in the costume department

of an abandoned theatre.

I tell him my teeth have been feeling wrong in my head

lately. I’ve had thoughts of breaking them with

hammers, putting my fingers to my gums and feeling them

come away in brown threads

like the flesh of overripe bananas. I ask

if he thinks I might be suffering

from some syndrome and he says,

“I once attended a medical conference. A drug rep

told a joke with the punch line: ‘Of course not! He’s dyslexic!’

and the premise seemed to be that it is inconceivable to think

the children of doctors might just be stupid.”

I say, “Isn’t that horribly insensitive?”

and he says, “Probably,

but then, that kind of thing doesn’t bother

me anymore.”

Outside, the rain has hardened to hail and the high-pitched

hollow taptaptap of gristle on the window makes me

feel like a lobster in the tank

of a mid-priced restaurant.

We sit in the dark on sofas coated in brown velour

– the sort worn in cop shows set in the ’70s.

On a greasy glass table is a bowl filled with

translucent, unwrapped sweets. I lift one, then put it back.

We watch the snooker and he tries to explain the rules.

I make a bad joke about sinking the pink and

I understand why he no longer feels obliged

to smile politely.

The sex is rhythmic and solipsistic:

I’m thinking about making myself

an appointment at the dentist and he doesn’t so much

come as his whole body wilts in my arms

like a sleeping bag.

I put my fingers to my thighs and find a light coating

of what feels like icing sugar.

When I go to the door I say, “I forgot to ask you how you died’

and he says, ‘That kind of thing doesn’t bother

me anymore.”

The hail has stopped and I look for my shoes.

He reminds me that I’m still wearing them.

Poetry Ireland Review Issue 121:

Edited by Eavan Boland

Eavan Boland's first issue as editor of Poetry Ireland Review aims to encourage a conversation about poetry which is 'noisy and fractious certainly ... but a conversation nevertheless that can be thrilling in its reach and commitment'. There are new poems from Thomas McCarthy, Jean Bleakney, Wendy Holborow, Paul Perry, Aifric Mac Aodha, and many others, while the issue also includes work from Brigit Pegeen Kelly, with an accompanying essay on the poet by Eavan Boland. Eavan Boland also offers an introduction to the work of poet Solmaz Sharif, while there are reviews of the latest books from Simon Armitage, Peter Sirr, Lo Kwa Mei-en, and Vona Groarke, among others. PIR 121 also includes Theo Dorgan's elegiac tribute to his friend John Montague – a canonical poet, in contrast to the emerging poets Susannah Dickey, Conor Cleary and Majella Kelly, who contribute new work and will also read for the Poetry Ireland Introductions series as part of ILFD 2017.