Two poems by A. M. Cousins

BROOCH
For Jean McConville.

Trussed up like an old hen – and sulking

when we pulled the sack off. A touch

of steel under her ear persuaded her.

I’d say it was a fair trial – rigorous maybe –

but we gave her time and more than one chance

to tell the truth and shame the devil.

She said it began with a knock, a thump

like a bag of coal falling and there he was –

a wee fellow – dying on her threshold.

We heard she had provided a cushion.

“A pillow,” she said, “that’s all it was.”

I recall the crack of my boot to her head.

The Chief was kind, patient as a saint.

“Tell us all,” he coaxed, “and you’ll be back

with the weans by Bingo time.”

I held a cigarette to her mouth, pulled

off her wedding-rings. We left her in her cardi,

an old nappy-pin on the lapel.

It’s that pin that haunts my sleep –

warrior-mother’s rust-bronzed brooch,

sole relic of the Disappeared.

PARLAY

That summer I fell in love with the shirt

of sheer, white cotton – its wide sleeves

held fast by tight cuffs as it billowed over

a market stall in the Dandelion Market

and it cost too much but I handed over

lunch money and bus fare because I knew

that if I wore a flesh-toned bra underneath

and tucked the shirt-tails into my blue jeans

I would look like a sexy pirate.

I wore it to a party in Rathgar.

At the vicar’s house there were traybakes,

lemonade and dancing – dancing with you –

until I feigned fatigue and we retired

to a dark corner, my head on your shoulder.

I adjusted my chin, watched your face

through slit lids, allowed your lips to find mine.

You brought me home. I held on tight, lay down

on your back when your bike took the corners,

inhaled your Head and Shoulders

and the oily tang of your biker-jacket.

I clung to you again when we kissed.

You laughed shyly when your jacket

left tracings of black wax on my good shirt

and, of course, I should have kept it – crumpled

and unwashed – battened down in an old trunk

with the wedding dress and the floral smock,

let its traceries whisper to them

and argue that the parlay had been wise.