Steve Denehan lives in Kildare, Ireland with his wife Eimear and daughter Robin. He is the author of two chapbooks and two collections.

Tongue at the End of Time Tongue had written history into motion a silver-fire thread of memory that twisted itself into a physical reality (there being no evidence without the word) describing with soft-floating tones the feel of skin and hair the shape of muscle and bone the ways in which we existed as smallness beneath the outspread arms and gesturing hands of sky and wind and forest and mountain latent in language t

Watching from the hill the tired king contemplated another battle of his kin against those errant legends without names. Witnessing the bluish paste for Gawain’s breast as he had of cardinals and many a vassal once again he let go of his hold and collapsed. He remembered many a tale of Charlemagne and his thousand troupes fainting, screaming upon hearing of a nephews’ demise. So many times before had he shown his grief all powerful as he had ever been in his realm little boy

Twitter-light twitter-light: noun; seventeenth century word, now obsolete, meaning ‘twilight’. ‘Are you there?’ Evening - summer, I guess - though time passes differently now. We were just leaving winter when we went into lockdown. It’s light enough to see still, illuminated only by the phone. Children are in their beds, although their chirrups and chirps filter down. ‘Are you there?’ ‘Yes, I’m here.’ I scan a message someone’s sent out into the ether. She says she can hear

Shias are kafirs I always spoke in low, hushed tones, uttered a soft 'No', when they called me a kafir. Because mama taught me that's what Prophet Mohammed preached. Be kind, she would say. I never told her, how many times I rinsed my mouth with blood before uttering the well-knitted No each time they pushed me aside in a school assembly, calling me a non-believer. I'm still kind. It's just that my blood is now d-r-y, tongue. The Diva (A Poem by Men For a Woman) A string,

Cool Air All the worry in the world could not make you notice me one second sooner. Or make me ready to meet you where you are– in the middle of a cold drink, ice chips crushed between your teeth. With enough concentration, I could let the party breathe around me, imagine I am the birthday girl and everyone is here for me. Or let the moment drift, ease me out of my grief. I could paint my name across your lips, moist and open. How much sun do you swallow in an hou