Poetry By Aoife Smith

       Katie Taylor CC



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Sunday Morning (2002)

The pines sit like children in pews, vigilantly distracted 
by all the world is, the rain greeting them not only rain 

but water imagery spit from the sky with the force of a boy 
begging. The mornings’ dimness heavy, dragging me 

damp fisted down with the day. Watching the storm decide 
on or against its own continuation I pitch to the window, 

forehead crushing on mesh screen for a taste of what comes 
and goes. Unsteady, wondering if the swooning clouds hold 

tightly even a particle of someone I knew, if her spit is 
thousands of feet high just waiting to be named rain. 

Again, capable of touch.




​Aoife Smith (they/them) is a queer first-generation American poet and fiber artist. They are a recent graduate of Smith College and 2022 recipient of The Rosemary Thomas Poetry Prize for their first chapbook First Grief. Aoife’s work appears, or is upcoming, in Emulate Magazine, Death Rattle/Oroboro, Bullshit Lit, and others.
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