New Irish Writing: Jonquille is the Name
There is a young woman, wrong, there is not. She’s not yet an adult, but she’s not still a child. She’s in her teens. She wants to consider herself an adult, let it be that she’s accorded that. Begin again. There is a young adult sitting beneath a tree under a grey-blue sky. There may be a seven-week-old foetus buried inside her, there may be not. What’s to be said about the tree? Well, first, this is no wind-shook sapling. It’s immense, measured against the young adult, who’s no longer a child but only recently, quietly so. It’s fully grown, compared to the soft changeling wh...