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Two Poems by E.M. Morrow

E. M. Morrow is a Northern Irish poet, raised in a flashpoint area of working-class Belfast in the aftermath of the Troubles. Her poetry springs from the seeds of intergenerational trauma, memory evoked through symbolism and the surrealism of the unconscious. She has a BSc and MSc in Psychology, and currently works as a trauma therapist.


The North star fades, bone-lit.

Oblivious to my marble eye’s 

blinking searchlight.


A one-eyed storm blows the Irish sea

toward me, dream-life catching sea-green

shimmers, drowning.


Distance has become an animal:

its hind legs tremble, baiting

to blow my lights out.


The waves sniff out my wet hair,

dazed and bled by waking dreams

of shedding selkie skins turned amber-dry.


Not so, my black-stemmed edge

still drinks the riverbed

in the funereal glow of dawn.


As daughter of the hot chamber,

poured into the blue beauty of the river,

I begin to cool and sharpen.


Tonight, the magma glows - I know the look

of Belfast darkness, velvet-gloved and gold.

The blood-shot eye of fortune burns the sky,

exhaling hot alarm to raise the dead.


The Molotov rush: a heavy red perfume

of drumming hearts, before they break the skin.

Then bleeding starts, from ear to shattered knee,

as spider lilies flush in graveside blooms.


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