Leontia Flynn

The girl upstairs has begun once more to cry.
Her tears won't have the wild momentum of a childs.
They're regular, rhythmic; actually it's kind of soothing
to hear her sob. Outside the rising wind
rumbles the bins and makes the drinkers shout.

I know her cries will ease at one or two.
I know her movements, I know when she comes and goes
twitching the blinds or scrabbling for mail in the hall.
I know her room is haunted by the moon
of a paper lampshade. I am the girl upstairs.

The Vibrator

When you had packed up all your books and clothes
and taken the last crap poster down, and walked
like a mournful ghost through the blank, familiar rooms
a thought struck --- clang! --- loud as a two pence piece
in a metal bucket: where was the vibrator?

Oh cruel Gods! Oh vulgar implement
that was stowed discreetly on some shelf or cupboard
but has almost certainly not been boxed away ....
Oh dirty gift of doubtful provenance
Oh gift --- surprise! --- for the next weeks settling tenants.
Oh nice surprise for next weeks settling tenants,
four Polish men paid peanuts by the hour
--- for in Belfast too world history holds its sway ---
to find alone in some nook or niche-hole the vibrator
still beats, in the dark, its battery-powered heart.