TRINITY

 I

No smoking in Trinity.

But there’s still the laundrette

where the guilty ones sit 

in some dusty corner 

far away from columns and facades

hidden from the world.

How fitting, I think, 

as I squeeze myself 

and my laundry through the narrow passage leading to it.

II

In the night I walk around campus,

now a mere shadow of all

it has been day after day:

thank you for all you’ve given me

and curse you,

CURSE YOU for all you’ve taken.

III

An unimaginable four years later

I sit on the other side

of the plane, a little further back

and don’t turn to look

at a younger shape of myself,

eyes blown wide from staring

at the future.

What would I tell her

if she asked me

I would hold my tongue,

say that she’ll cry just a little

as the plane takes off from Dublin,

hug her

tell her (?)

to look forward

to every single hug I’ve received there.