‘Oh yes, I know the place. We landed once, a shingle shore,
and marched inland, meeting no resistance except a string
of wild-eyed ponies and a hare, twitching in a field as we
clanked past. There for the taking, if we’d wanted.’ Wine-bruised
lips, the wife in Tivoli, he pats the couch and beckons closer.
‘But the cold! And so much rain: the further we went in,
the wetter it became. After three days we pulled out.’
He bids the Nubian pour again, and leers. ‘The gods
that brought you here instead were smiling.’ Leg-irons,
a pitching sea, the dealers wheedling for the last sesterce.
My name in ink a rope around my neck. His meat hand
on my pap. ‘One day your wretched country will be ours,
should we desire.’ Sagging tunic, eyes aswim. His sword
snores, dreaming of war. The Nubian giggles: envies my milk skin.
John O’Donnell has published five volumes of poetry, most recently Sunlight: New and Selected Poems (Dedalus Press). His short story collection, Mr Hoo and other stories, was recently published by Doire Press
and marched inland, meeting no resistance except a string
of wild-eyed ponies and a hare, twitching in a field as we
clanked past. There for the taking, if we’d wanted.’ Wine-bruised
lips, the wife in Tivoli, he pats the couch and beckons closer.
‘But the cold! And so much rain: the further we went in,
the wetter it became. After three days we pulled out.’
He bids the Nubian pour again, and leers. ‘The gods
that brought you here instead were smiling.’ Leg-irons,
a pitching sea, the dealers wheedling for the last sesterce.
My name in ink a rope around my neck. His meat hand
on my pap. ‘One day your wretched country will be ours,
should we desire.’ Sagging tunic, eyes aswim. His sword
snores, dreaming of war. The Nubian giggles: envies my milk skin.
John O’Donnell has published five volumes of poetry, most recently Sunlight: New and Selected Poems (Dedalus Press). His short story collection, Mr Hoo and other stories, was recently published by Doire Press
