I renounce all pretence of romance
In relation to my existence.
I am a pulsing fist of muscle,
Enticing blood from lungs,
Sending its nutrients to brain and liver,
Bone and nerve, strong as an arched sail.
I draw it from tired cells,
Feed it with new purpose,
Throbbing incessantly under the skin,
Each beat given all my force.
When I miss my cue in another’s presence,
It is the brain that instructs me.
Ribs have deemed me worthy of protection,
Though I’m no more precious than liver.
A million litres pass through me,
So don’t cite me when talking of love.
I am not its representative:
Dangle that accolade from another organ.
But there’s a kind of romance in how I work.
Trevor Conway, a Sligoman living in Galway since 2005, writes mainly poetry, fiction and songs. He’s drawn to write about nature, creativity, football and people/society. His work has appeared in magazines and anthologies across Ireland, Austria, India, the UK, the US and Mexico, where his poems have been translated into Spanish. He is a contributing editor for The Galway Review, and his first collection of poems was published by Salmon Poetry in 2015 (http://www.salmonpoetry.com/details.php?ID=374&a=278). Trevor’s mother likes some of these poems, but finds a few of them “a bit weird”.
Writing & blog: http://trevorconway.weebly.com/
My first collection of poetry: http://www.salmonpoetry.com/details.php?ID=374&a=276
Poems in Profile: http://poemsinprofile.weebly.com/