Banshee Bones
As soon as I see them
on the shelf in the petrol station
I start to salivate
my tongue winces
preparing itself
for the explosion of flavour
that now
is inevitable
my daughter asks the question
I pick up a pack
read it to her
Banshee Bones
Screaming Salt & Vinegar Flavour
Maize & Potato Snacks
the banshee on the front is hideous of course
a dark-eyed old lady
her hair smoky and wild
teeth pointed
claws at the end of spindly fingers
the skin translucent
the bones visible
we sit in the car
open a pack each
the smell, the same
nostrils sweetly stung
the taste, the taste
the taste
she wakes me
before I have tumbled all the way back
asks me to tell her
about banshees
I say that it is a spirit, a ghost
a shrieking, screaming, wailing woman
that if you hear her wails
it is already
too late
that someone close
is close
to death
she looks at me
open mouthed
eyes wide
asks me
if I believe it
I tell her
that I did
once
that we all did
as we circled the camp fire
or sat on the park wall
that we ran home those nights
on the balls of our feet
exhaling
only when the door was shut behind us
I tell her
that I don’t
now
that a banshee wail
is a howling wind
that heralds only rain
I ask about her fears
she thinks
tells me that sometimes
she believes
the shadows are alive
that they might
get her
that her head knows it isn’t true
but her heart is not so sure
she tells me that once
or maybe twice
she was sure
that there were monsters
in her wardrobe
she smiles
I rub her leg
smile back
ask her if the Banshee Bones are tasty
she nods
definitely
they are, they really are
on the drive home
I think back
remember those same fears
and long for them
Polish
I read an article about poetry
learned how each line must be carved, meticulously
sculpted, for hours, sometimes days
until it is perfect
until the sheen is blinding
how every word must be polished
how every syllable must be considered
objectively, painstakingly
it was hammered home
poetry is revision, revision, revision
I could relate
having read so many poems
smoothed down, to almost nothing
perfect constructions
linguistic firework displays
even the letters
the curve of the D
a half moon, a blade
the X, a cold, loveless kiss
the T, a crucifix on which the poets splay themselves
in amongst the Greek gods, garish stylistic flourishes
po-faced misery and relentless similes
I find the W
its prongs honed over weeks and months
into the finest of points
sharp enough, plenty sharp enough
to drive into my eyes
Steve Denehan lives in Kildare, Ireland with his wife Eimear and daughter Robin. He is the author of two chapbooks and two collections. Twice winner of Irish Times' New Irish Writing, his numerous publication credits include Poetry Ireland Review, Acumen, Westerly and Into the Void. He has been nominated for Best of the Net, Best New Poet and has been twice nominated for The Pushcart Prize