Carberry sitting on steps
Colin Carberry; photo: Veronica Garza Flores.

Debut

i.m Kathleen Harold

It must be about thirty years ago now, I was home,
and some of my cousins, aunts and uncles came to see me;
we sat by the old turf stove in her kitchen’s cramped green gloom,
gorging on treacle bread, rhubarb tart, washed down with Barry’s tea.

Then from my jacket I produced my book of poetry,
dedicated “to Nana, with love”. She was placing it
in the dresser with the good delph when a blue bottle fly
she’d been tracking lit for a split second and she pasted

it to the table with The Crossing. Someone coughed. The clock
ticked above us. Without glancing at the grim red-grey stain
on the shiny cover she shot me a wry, impish look,
and said, Now, Colin, your book came in handy for somethin’.


The Bullet

for Goran Simić

Afternoons were reserved for sweaty toil:
bare-chested laborers, with hoe and spade
we dug and hacked the mortar-blasted soil
of Ilidža – thoughts of unexploded
ordnance suppressed in a tacit, sustained
joint effort to snag a real war souvenir.
But all we gleaned from those drills that had lain
undisturbed since the siege were broken beer
bottles, tin cans, and a child’s shoe. We’d meet
again, in Toronto two months later,
at a blues bar on a dark, leaf-strewn street:
rooting through your pockets for a lighter,
you produced a spent, rain-rusted bullet,
the dust of your ghost homeland still in it.


Goran Simić and Colin Carberry gardening;
photo: Veronica Garza Flores

Photos of Bosnia by Veronica Garza Flores.


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