Christmas in November 2019

At the end of our first was, of course, a second and, yes,
a third glass of wine.

And some time into the second was a badly built joint,
made from my paper, your cardboard, my tobacco, your bud,
my spit, all passed from your free hand to mine.

We had to go around to the bins. You were wrapped
in tinsel, I had antlers, the joint sitting between my teeth. My
lighter, your fingers, my breath, your breath. We left the lighter
on the park bench, forgot about the wine, carried home only

And I thought,

Even if this is not the end of history, even if you are to move or I am to cheat or we are never to be anything of note— In years coming, I will still have this piece of tinsel in my collarbone, this wine in my belly, this piece of rolling paper stuck on my bottom lip.

Sophie Furlong Tighe


Sophie Furlong Tighe is a Drama and Theatre Studies student at Trinity College Dublin. She was once a slam poet, a twice winner of Dublin’s Slam Sunday. Now she writes things on pages, and has published in Not Where I Belong and Dodging The Rain.

© 2020