Right after I saw you
with a new lover, dancing on the street,
those green boxers I’d bought showing above your jeans,
I consulted books of old magic
for a potion. I spent weeks
in moonlit visitation to a fox’s den,
a raven’s nest. I fasted, invoked jinn,
prepared nuts, herbs, a rabbit’s innards. I drank it
and my soul transmigrated
into a large white bloodhound.
I sniffed all you’d left behind:
aftershave, swimming trunks, boxers.
Filling my nostrils with your scent
I set off across fields, houses, hills.
I would find your new lover
and rip off his cock and balls.
As you cowered in the bed,
shaking beneath the sheets,
I thought better of it. I picked up
that pair of boxers we’d bought together,
that pair your new lover tore off you earlier,
and carried them home between my teeth.
They lie at the bottom of my wardrobe.
Another relic for your shrine.
Derek Coyle has published poems and reviews in the U.S., Britain and Ireland; in Irish Pages, The Texas Literary Review, Cuadrivio (Mexico), Wordlegs, The SHOp, Burning Bush 2, Glitterwolf, Skylight 47, and fathers and what needs to be said. He has been shortlisted for the Patrick Kavanagh Award (2010, 2014), the Bradshaw Prize (2011), and in 2012 he was a chosen poet for the Poetry Ireland ‘Introductions Series.’ In 2013 he was placed second in the Bradshaw Prize. He currently lives in Carlow, Ireland, and he is a member of the Carlow Writers’ Co-Operative.