My thighs are cold

My thighs are cold.

As is the pucked sag of my belly,
a cool appendage hanging like
a symbiotic twin from my waist,
with two sons-worth of skin stretch.

My fingers are cold.

As are my toes, their ten plus ten
equalling twenty long digits
that grapple at warmth with
a cadaver's marblous grip.

Until my morning bed.

There, heat oozes like piety
to every cranny, making
a smug bitch of me, a pup
languishing in self-made heat.

by Nuala Ní Chonchúir

Other poems of CHONCHÚIR (6)

Comments (1)

I believe that this is not the original by Randolph but a translation by James Leigh Hunt of a Latin poem by Randolph. The constraints of translation may explain the uncomfortable first verse, somewhat reminiscent of William Topaz McGonagall. Does anyone have the original?