the madrigal, volume iii.v
by mary o'connell
We both hesitate for a minute.
An umbrella separates us.
We hug and I notice there is less of you and you are wet.
Your face is thinner and you have two new freckles under your right eye.
Were they there before or are they just more noticeable now that you are fading away?
You are tall and I tell her not to point it out- she does anyway.
You put your ring on my pinkie and trace a light finger around my face.
I am looking at you looking at the disco ball and it seems to turn on its own volition.
The brown paper bag is wet and goes straight into the bin and you sleep in a different room
with my blanket.
You tell me to write but you still have not sent me your address.
When you are gone I pick frozen berries off the floor.
Mary O’Connell is twenty-one years old and an undergraduate of English and History at University College Cork. She has been writing poetry and prose for many years but has only recently begun submitting her work for publication. Her poetry focuses on her experiences of life and love as a young queer person in Ireland.