Felt my stomach twist like the grip of my hurl
when the coach said to hammer
the other team, to shove and kick.
Shivered in my damp, bulky skort,
rough socks. Picked at my knees
like chicken skewers. Consoled the girls
who’d been dropped,
others petrified they’d bleed on a pitch
with a hedgerow for a toilet.
Watched my team puck, pass,
score. Grass scattered like secret notes
between their studs. Listened to some dad
call the goalie a ‘useless cunt’
as he smacked the metal lid of the dugout.
Waited to be at least 7 points up, ran
my tongue along the bar of my retainer
as the sliotar soared over the goal.
Would’ve died for a run. Patted the cup
like a newborn when we won.
Pictured the Powerade blue of the tumour
bulging in my granny’s neck to make myself cry
when we lost. Her small body morphine-patched,
terrified. Roared ‘c’mon, c’mon, c’mon,’
helpful as a plaster trailing an open gash.
Today’s poem is from Molly Twomey’s recently published collection, Chic to be Sad (Gallery Presss)
when the coach said to hammer
the other team, to shove and kick.
Shivered in my damp, bulky skort,
rough socks. Picked at my knees
like chicken skewers. Consoled the girls
who’d been dropped,
others petrified they’d bleed on a pitch
with a hedgerow for a toilet.
Watched my team puck, pass,
score. Grass scattered like secret notes
between their studs. Listened to some dad
call the goalie a ‘useless cunt’
as he smacked the metal lid of the dugout.
Waited to be at least 7 points up, ran
my tongue along the bar of my retainer
as the sliotar soared over the goal.
Would’ve died for a run. Patted the cup
like a newborn when we won.
Pictured the Powerade blue of the tumour
bulging in my granny’s neck to make myself cry
when we lost. Her small body morphine-patched,
terrified. Roared ‘c’mon, c’mon, c’mon,’
helpful as a plaster trailing an open gash.
Today’s poem is from Molly Twomey’s recently published collection, Chic to be Sad (Gallery Presss)
