AN AITIUIL: AN ANTHOLOGY
with the martello journal
by megan o'driscoll
When I fell behind Dublin’s couch she couldn’t reach me. She pulled me out after a month when the dust I
gathered made her sneeze. Dublin’s got me zonked out. She spilled poppers on my coat and kissed me with
too much tongue and left without saying goodbye. I’ll still say yes when she asks to borrow a fiver.
When I marched with the endless train of the weary towards the top of the queue for Dublin’s golden taxi
rank and found nothing, she told me I needed a haircut. Dublin did not call me a dirty hippie. I did not call
Dublin a yuppie in the hopes we were bringing that one back. Really, where do you get these ideas?
When I paid five euro for a cup of coffee Dublin told me to sort myself out, jesus. Dublin has a headache but
she swears it’s not about that. She thinks it must be something she ate. Dublin hasn’t eaten all day, if she’s
being honest. She does not feel like being honest. I think Dublin’s passed out in the back of the taxi again.
When I tried to get away for a while, Dublin told me I’d never get a hotel there. Or there. We’re right on the
edge of Europe, I told her. We’re on the edge of civilization, she told me. She was on the edge, I’ll tell you
that. I took Dublin out to the pier — Sea swimming is in, cigarettes are out, keep up. She stood at the end
and looked out over everything, I stood at the end and turned to look back.
Dublin knows I’ll keep coming back even though I hate it. She knows I’ll only be sure I hate it if I keep