Two poems by Nuala Ní Chonchúir

The Lunar Spread

On Half Moon Street
we eat Tunisian orange cake,
under a painting of a melon
that spills seeds like love.

Over Notre Dame
the moon is a plate,
tossed by a Greek waiter
from rue Hachette.

Clear of Galway’s rooftops
the full moon
– bald as a skull –
crowns the night.

When she is van Gogh yellow
and mooning above,
we close the shutters
to safely sleep.
(first published in Burning Bush)

The moon is battered tonight, bruised and swollen,
but she swanks above us, bringing joy to the chill.

Tallow-moon, electric-moon, she shoulders the sky,
a brazen spotlight over trees salted with frost.

And down here, eyes aching, we creep to the church
on the square, make peace with each other in song.
(first published in Southword and subsequently in The Juno Charm, Salmon, 2011)
Nuala Ní Chonchúir lives in Galway, Ireland. She is a novelist, short story writer and poet. Her fourth short story collection Mother America was published by New Island in 2012. Her third full poetry collection The Juno Charm was published by Salmon Poetry in November 2011.