Joan Houlihan Poems

A crush of oily plant and treated white, wrapt and reached by root, sky-touched and still, a bud in leaf: make of me a body. Oil me, hand and foot,
...

She had a death in me, knees drawn up
and my bowl and cloth rinsed through with her.
As morning takes night, field closes the hare,
and ay would burrow into her.
...

Who kills my history knows
it is buried
in the same air ay breathe.
Only a hair is needed to keep you, mother.
...