Moira Walsh

I hear your voice in my pillow space, saying

don’t force it. Don’t 
write, unless it’s roaring 
out or pouring down 
or sprouting up with little arms 
unchrysalisting after gooey sleep

or like a loaf, a sail, a wing, a lust, 
a well-oiled hinge 
a silent
and away

Anticipation of travel

Best kind of insomnia is this
not wanting to miss
a moment’s joyment

Mental firing
on all six cylinders? eight? ten?

Desire: a whole field
of horses

Elusive gift

There’s no way
to bottle
or can
or dry
or jar

But the fragrance seeps
into cavities

and lingers

in your nose
behind your eyes

A clear dawn
after weeks of rain


Moira Walsh makes her home in southern Germany and translates for a living. Poems are forthcoming in Bennington Review, Ethel Zine, Poetry Northwest, Trnsfr, and elsewhere. Recent publications include Denver Quarterly, Dunes Review, and two issues of Hummingbird: Magazine of the Short Poem. Moira is the 2021 Anne-Marie Oomen Literary Fellow at Poetry Forge.