she’d christened herself after joyce’s fearful anti-heroine
but told him that her parents were irish nationalists
he’d been scalded and scraped by a flying teapot
and was in the mood for a good pipe by the fireside
her shoes of purple velvet rosettes made him laugh
as the pork chop on his grey tweed hat amused her
it was a pub in london and they were young and the
summer stretched before them almost endlessly
they had no need to conceal the truth when together
but her swamp eyes lied in spite of themselves
his freckled lips twitched with the guilt of deception
each felt the other was hiding something, somewhere
but knew not how to unlock the secrets deep
when you become someone else, she told him
you have to lock it up to remain yourself afterward
if you were someone else, he chastised later
that someone is always a part of the inner you
and you can’t remove it by saying time’s up
his dream had unfurled its flag long ago
but she couldn’t forget the unforgiveable
and where their story threatened to end
is where it really began …
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