They say my friend’s grandmother
is a white witch, a bandraoi,
who lives alone above Kerry cliffs.
People like her still exist
in the country
with their healing hands: farmers,
and butchers’ wives who can cure
Your hands on my naked back,
from guitar strings, palms warm
with unnatural heat,
like burning ash over my skin.
You traced a glowing pattern.
Images rose beneath your touch:
you sketched the soft
shuffle of flowers opening,
the Eiffel Tower at sunset,
two birds in the sky
of a blue-painted canvas.
A twitch in your fingers
as your conjured heart-shaped chocolates
from my flesh
before plucking them
one by one
and putting them to your tongue.
Your hands were the sun,
a healing heat that seeped
through my bones.
When I laid my own palms on you,
I asked what you felt
and you said, Nothing,
except for your hands.
Róisín Kelly was born in Northern Ireland on 1990. She has an MA in Writing from NUIG. Her poems have appeared in Crannog, The Galway Review and elsewhere. Currently she lives in Cork.
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