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Kerri Ni Dochartaigh 

When Kerri Ni Dochartaigh was small she used to write words down on paper aeroplanes and throw them at her Mum. Then she studied English and Classics at Trinity College, Dublin. She is now 25 and lives in Edinburgh. She still writes her words down (Lyrical Ballads, The Secret attic, Birds on the line, seventytwowords)    but she is no longer any good at origami.
the red fox

the red fox circles the tree at an unimaginable pace. he is a proud dog;
he knows his place in the natural order.
there was once a time we made red foxes out of leaves and you cried whilst listening to that song.
we left trails for the trolls but they would not follow us home.
they feared our bond; innocence spilled out of hidden pockets in crimson crinkled lines.
they couldn't read the maps in the skies in the half light.

unpacking the boxes

the wooden floor is the boat that discovered that the earth is not flat.
it is the night sky
(its slats are irregular galaxies-interspersed with bright and oh so beautiful stars;
their twinkling makes her weep.)
the floor holds secrets inside the boxes of its soul.
it has known the real meaning of darkness.
its wood has lived life after life after life after life.
and it has died and left its trail of mourning.
she cradles the wooden floor and as it sighs she feels the world grieve.


i remember you from a time long past
me by.

you held your hands over my ears
in a market place
where men wrung
chickens' necks
in a
foreign language.

as if
they were telling one another
the time/
discussing the price of saffron;
their unfamiliar vocabulary
falls outside of my dictionary.

when we first met
you talked to me of
the spice trail in
centuries long,

i remembered your chivalry.

a type of crown

i stand with your head on a stick.
it brings me no joy and yet i cannot seem to
remove your severed body part
from my delicate tree branch.

i deserve all the feathers in the land,
placed upon my head in ceremony.