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  • Kate McCaughey

Divine Things

These divine things settle as dust in the cracks around my room.

On hot days I read Frank O’Hara and eat Savers ice lollies,

hoping one of them, or both, will give me a syrupy thing to

mop up the UV.


Most days I’m wandering round a sales floor, tucking tags back

into pockets.

When it’s warm, I find the little spot in front of the leisurewear

Where the sun comes through Eldon Square, and I stand like a cat

basking.


I got high in the slither of Ouseburn where you can see the new

flats and the leftovers of shipyard mud at the same time.

We talked about the state of the world and how we’re

all just hoping we can do something about it,

and on the way home, I rested my head against the bus window,

and watched the neon lights of the West Road blur past.


At Catholic school I never believed in a God, because most of my friends

were sad and I searched for pictures of women in private on Tumblr.

But now I’m thinking maybe there is something.

I watch documentaries about Canadian wilderness,

and I see my friends change their pronouns.


I hoover my room and open the windows wide.

I’m thinking there probably is a God,

And they’re probably living their best life up there.




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