Without Me

Once, in the hiatus of a difficult July,

down Eskra’s lorryless roads from sweet fuck all,

we were flinging – such young sophisticates – like a giant frisbee 

this plastic lid of an old rat poison bin.

 

We were flinging it from you to me, me to you, you to me;

me-you, you-me, me-you, you back again.

And you would have sworn that its flat arc was a pendulum,

compassing Tyrone’s prosey horizon.

 

And I would have sworn that our throw and catch had such momentum

that its rhythm might survive, somehow, without me.

By: Leontia Flynn