{by Jodie Doyle}
Jackie almost drowned last spring but we’re not supposed to talk about it.
Still her skin is still slick wet.
And sometimes it moves on its own,
Maggots and blowflies making homes
In place of a heaving chest.
And sometimes she will pull mushrooms from her ears,
The crook of her neck like a macabre garden,
She pops them in her mouth like candies.
And sometimes she is so blue,
I want to reach out and put my hand through her
Warm the veins bursting for air.
And sometimes,
She brushes algae from her curls
Coughs up fresh water.
I ask Jackie what drowning feels like
She looks at me and I feel cold;
“Not everything feels like something else.”
-Jodie Doyle
Jodie Doyle
Jodie is a third year English with Creative Writing student at UCD. She enjoys writing poetry but mainly because she’s scared of the commitment that is prose. Her poems tend to centre around loneliness, bodies, and her slightly warped perception of romance, all tied together with a neat bow of viscera and humour.
