It Is What It Is

This has moulded itself around me
to my curves and hollows,
my pores and freckles wrapped up in
silken armour, while I
convince myself of my voice.
I say what I say, quietly,
not sure,
hearing how the tone and texture
jars against you, the grain of sand
in your shoe, the pea underneath
Princess mattress. It is what it is.
I hear an echo of an empty mind
spilled onto page and I am
embarrassed by lack of
knowledge, or opinion
on war, religion
Sheela-na-gig’s and goddesses while
I am celebrating my ordinary
from the mundane to the magnificent.
It is what it is.
I am concerned about my broken dancing shoes,
a misdirected kiss, the limo and the leaving.
I am concerned about the Poet’s Hat,
too big for me, slipping down continually
over one eye.
I am concerned that I hear my voice,
clear in my head, but when it arrives out
it is distorted, a poor woman’s poet voice.
So while I wish I had something more profound to say.
I don’t.
I said this.

© Aisling Doherty

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