Noc­turama

The Irish Times - Friday - The Ticket - - BOOKS - By Eva Bourke

And when night comes I’ll go to places fit for woe. – Wil­liam Blake

Unsee­ing I went un­der­ground, fol­lowed the ar­row into night­desert, night-scree, night-bur­row. What was it that touched my cheek, a fin­ger, a snout, a wing, some softly breath­ing mem­ory? What was it that flut­tered in my head, what bird perched in my heart press­ing it against my ribs? And ev­ery­where eyes that saw where I saw noth­ing, irises huge and pol­ished as mag­ni­fy­ing glasses, the ob­sid­ian dots of pupils at the cen­tre pool­ing the night. Guarded by the sleepy-eyed owl, my sis­ters civet and lori, I grew in­cisors and talons, my eyes were hooded, I was guided by scent, my voice broke, I lived in league with the aard­vark.

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