‘Samhain’ by Ingrid Casey
On the Wednesday before Samhain, I am making
a typo in the IM to my besto about the summer of
1816, the summer of no sun, I say summer of no sin,
is there such a thing, we emojicate, jocular, of course
not, but Shelley’s summer, as I’d been reading over the
clouds of gothic steam rising from Wednesday kitchen
mince being garlicked to within an inch of its life, as I
run to the neighbours for a tin opener, that summer was
biblical, umbilical, brown snow fell on Hungarian fields
while Byron and company settled around other mountains,
moved enough to create monsters out of the mahogany, the
terrible summer skies. What sin, to birth such a monster. I hear
the children clamouring, crashing into this, my realm, my radio
moments, my online journal and fleeting chats moments, I lay out
the knives, the pumpkins will be carved and we will read stories during
Samhain and nine months later we will sin, every summer, we will birth
storm stories.
Ingrid Casey is a writer and teacher, a Dublin native living in Kildare. Her work has featured in journals across Ireland and the UK, with short fiction and poetry having been shortlisted for literary prizes such as Doolin Writers’ festival and the Francis Ledwidge Memorial prize. She has been awarded the John Hewitt bursary in 2017. Current poetry is available in the Three Drops Press anthology of ghosts and hauntings, White Noise and Ouija Boards. A first collection of poetry is also forthcoming in 2018.