Liz Gallagher


My father wouldnít give me a blessing. The roots of my hair
need dye. Holding a bread knife before a Sacred Heart picture

means this house has plastered down my feet. I live in 3 over
-lapping parts: a mother hunched over a well of water, a wife

in free-fall, a daughter swiveling a love lens at a fatherís
photo. I once rode pigs and watched the sunlight illuminate

cobwebs. Now, I rank at zero and am loved by association.
The dirt under my nails is from the clay that buried my dreams.

I once had a dog that followed me everywhere. I see miracles
hard-wired into my head. Tufts of grass keep holy water in tact

in bottles. My children run footloose with bows and arrows pricking
the air. We gather jam jars to collect memories. I walk with them on hot,

tarred roads, barricading out the sound of a jet plane gone missing
after a collision. I own useless things: taped laughter, the noise

of slot machines, the soft crown of a babyís head, my fatherís pipe.†

Liz is Irish and lives in the Canary Islands, Spain. She has work published or forthcoming in Mannequin Envy, The Pedestal Magazine, Centrifugal Eye, Wicked Alice, FRIGG, Loch Raven Review, Kaleidowhirl, The Mad Hatter's Review, The Hiss Quarterly, Word Riot and NoŲ. She placed first in IBPC in December 2006.

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