Nuala Ní Chonchúir

1970 / Dublin

A KIND OF FORGERY

I take your verse,
slit it with my pen
to see what's hidden
in its deep inside,
then I flip it over,
to winnow out
the secrets that
cower underneath.

Your thoughts
I transmogrify,
stripping them back
to a primitive form,
then I cloak them
in another lexicon,
hanging a new flesh
on older bones.

Each phrase matters
if not each word.
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