Poetry Corner: Ciaran Carson

Read this:

Bloody Hand

Your man, says the Man, will walk into the bar like this — here his
fingers
Mimic a pair of legs, one stiff at the knee — so you'll know exactly
What to do. He sticks a finger to his head. Pretend its child's
play —
The hand might be a horse's mouth, a rabbit or a dog. Five
handclaps.
Walls have ears: the shadows you throw are the shadows you
try to throw off.

I snuffed out the candle between finger and thumb. Was it the
left hand
Hacked off at the wrist and thrown to the shores of Ulster?
Did Ulster
Exist? Or the Right Hand of God, saying Stop to this and No
to that?
My thumb is the hammer of a gun. The thumb goes up. The
thumb goes down.

– Ciaran Carson, my man from Belfast, a man of magic.