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Patricia Walsh<br />
Fire Alarm<br />
Reaching for the criminal clock<br />
Adjust where needed, avoiding shame<br />
Trying hard to act like nothing’s wrong,<br />
Being watched constantly is a solid curse<br />
Even lies are currency in this universe.<br />
Avoidance is pointless, staid under the microscope.<br />
Pinned down and writhing for a feast for the eye<br />
Being hung out to dry is a just punishment<br />
Tenacious boyfriends’ not passing notice,<br />
Surreptitious make-up and perfume prevails.<br />
Such a thing as overdressing, just for Mass<br />
Slighted on being one’s own, a strange brew,<br />
The distant disco a promise of the elders<br />
A blotchy photograph debates the seal<br />
Sitting among the over-adolescent not a big deal.<br />
Reading diaries at will, massacring boxes<br />
Of small personal items, sweets included<br />
Checked against hiraeth, lectured in pain<br />
Burned through the tiniest script, to escape notice<br />
Maturity a dead letter, elusive via surveillance.<br />
The clock works again, serving its purpose,<br />
Checked for accuracy, remaining in light<br />
A reliable cliché in the thing of the lowly aim<br />
Scouting for Mars bars, keeping extremities clean<br />
A type of funeral from slighting the hubris.<br />
156 WINDWARD REVIEW | Vol. 18
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