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They Built a 'Boots' Upon Our Love

by jacob ray-halliday


I


Google Maps takes you

only so far.


Church

of St. Brigid.


Tire scorched

car park.


Red rust fence:

Strictly No Shooting!


The V in the wall

you fit through,


the mohawk

of green leading


to white and black

blobs I know


to be cows

that’d take your hand off.


That’s as close

as it’ll let me.


It’s 1 p.m. in Melbourne.

I’d guess


you’re neck-deep in seawater,

bronze and buzzed,


tattoos peaking above

white waves,


moving through you

and kept in a smile...


Rilke in your bag

on the sand?


a pencil in the pages

cos you won’t read bareback


(though you couldn’t ever read

in the sun, mind you).


II


I thought about sending you

a letter,


sprayed with the cologne

you licked off my neck


that night in Doyle’s,

when Colm potted


the cue ballin

some lad’s pint,


and Ella finally got the ride

with your one.


I wouldn’t know

what to say in it, of course,


only hope that you wouldn’t

think me


trying to mend

a fractured cup.


My mother’s okay and my sister’s alright and the weather’s still shite and Rex

died. But how’s the weather where you’re staying? Have you been to the Gallery

in Canberra?


Or I’d tell you about our field.

The 100,000 sq ft of concrete


clamping the clouds

we spun.


III


It was in the café

that I heard.


I was reading

Sontag’s essays when


Cian, coated in flour

and yeast set the paper


on my table. Coffee

never tasted so acrid.


They’d already

NO TRESPASSING


signs put up by the time

I cycled down.


Three parishioners stood

by the gate.


Red rosaries wheeling

through their hands,


praying for bluebells

or invisible cows


or the land unjustly bought

and sold


that held the indent

of our bodies.


IV


I felt it to be sacred grounds.

Did you?

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Image by Bree Anne
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