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Poems—Edward Lee

Edward Lee's poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, The Blue Nib and Poetry Wales. His poetry collections are Playing Poohsticks On Ha’Penny BridgeThe Madness Of Qwerty and A Foetal Heart.

He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.

His blog/website can be found at



made of teeth

are all she's ever known,

somehow signing

up to a life

she didn't want,

one she can't seem

to escape from either,

preoccupied, as she is,

with cleaning her perpetually bleeding wounds,

helplessly preparing herself

for the next flow of kisses

which shine enamel bright

in the dark as much as they do 

in the sun.


Stared at the sun

too long in my effort

to be alive, now 

everything has become

a ghost floating across my vision,

the only cure for which

being rooms of darkness

for days on end,

the perfect environment

for my mind to begin murmuring again

of the peaceful sense

to be found

in the bottom

of all this night,

this potentially endless night.


I didn't kill you,

but I didn't

try to keep you living,

though how 

I could have done

such a thing,

I don't know,

when the decision

was never truly mine

to allow you to be born,

but I could have tried,

in whatever way I could find,

even if it was no more

than a promise disguised

as an argument, or vice versa,

whichever made the most sense,

and in that attempt

avoided this guilt

that catches my breath

when it greets me

every morning I wake

from troubled sleep,

the shadows of possibility

hidden in dreams

still clinging to my skin.


We slept at different hours,

our waking lives

barely crossing over,

yet we lived in love

for four years, almost five

now that I think of it,

never once wanting more

than what we had,

until our sleeping lives

became disturbed

by the sleeping life

of another, one

which aligned with yours.


We cannot talk

of the explosion

without speaking

of the fuse,

and who lit its tapered end,

but we avoid those words

and the truth

they contain,

happier to dwell

on lies and recriminations

that spell out other names.


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