Brian Kirk


At the edge of night
by the side wall of a pub
masked by the blank stare
of a broken street lamp
hands buried in pockets
he waits
kicking small stones
from under his feet

Unseen he watches a door
swallow men one by one
a slurred racket escapes
now and then
clouting his cold ears
like the dull clang of
an ominous bell
intoning his future

Past shuttered shops and
boys who make catcalls
she walks to the spot
where they meet
feeling the cold of the town
in her stomach
but not on her legs
which are bare

He steps out of the gloom
dark as the devil
his cold hands on her face
as they kiss
bring a queer warmth
that is not from within
as the night sucks them in
one on one to the wall

Brian Kirk
is a poet and short story writer from Clondalkin, Dublin. He was shortlisted for Hennessy Awards in 2008 and 2011 and the Over The Edge New Writer of the Year Awards in 2008 and 2009. He won the inaugural Writing Spirit Award in 2009. He has been highly commended in the 2011 iYeats Poetry Competition and the 2012 Bare Hands Poetry Competition. His work has appeared in The Sunday Tribune, The Stony Thursday Book, Southword, Crannóg, Revival, Boyne Berries, Wordlegs, Bare Hands Poetry, Cancan Poezine, The First Cut, Abridged, Shot Glass Journal and various anthologies. He blogs at