roseanne fahey

three poems

TRIGGER WARNING: REFERENCE TO SEXUAL ASSAULT, SUICIDE, AND DEATH
 
Delivery at Dawn 

 

We live at the top of the town, 

so the postman calls at seven in the morning, 

and dad's deaf,

and I've been a light sleeper since 

I woke to a half dressed boy 

lying on top of my body.

 

I throw the duvet aside 

and run down the twenty-seven steps

to press my thigh 

against the brass,

twisting and pushing the key out of the hole, 

as if it were the menstrual cup 

I bought for my birthday. 

 

The postman smiles and says 

he's sorry for waking me up. 

I smile and say, 

“don't worry about it” 

and although that's a catchphrase of mine, 

this time it's genuine. 



 

Shush

 

A woman covered in baby’s blood 

begged me to stay quiet, 

and although I couldn’t tell 

that her tears were sweat

and her blues were scrubs, 

not a celebration of the 

thing between my thighs, 

I knew that her gloves were the only

warmth I’d felt since the womb,

which she had led me out of. 



 

Cramp

 

I've been thinking about 

nightlife cliff sides 

and why my aunt chose 

to drive there and die, 

 

and I'll never know if the 

seagulls were asleep 

or if she remembered 

not to eat,

 

because she used to buy

her son and me 

sweets after swimming, 

but somehow I doubt that

 

my mum is waiting for her

with a two euro coin 

by the vending machine 

in heaven. 

30 January, 2021

Roseanne Fahey is a twenty-one-year-old student living in Ireland. She studies Creative Writing at the National University of Ireland, Galway. Her poetry and prose have been published in The Five-Two, In Parenthesis, Ice-Lolly Review, and The Daily Drunk. You can find her listening to sad songs in the local forest or at @FaheyRoseanne on Twitter.