In a shadowy studio
I immortalize you
in a cedar frame
so
your religious relics
won’t be lost
as you were

your spirit
tied only
to dried roses
now powdered
are said to have touched
the coffin of St. Theresa

splinters of a cross
that once lay
across a Holy man
still wrapped
in a faultless square of
waxed paper

a scapular, the backdrop
like a poorly hung drape
in the aged confessional
where you felt coerced to
admit your sins
this promised you salvation

tokens of these
like
wasted
lullabies
of your silenced voice

at the stone house
you will find
grenadine geraniums

beneath the kitchen window

spicy-sweet
they spill out of a
window box
abandoning
their summer petals

a warm breeze brings in
the honeyed air of
ambrosial autumn clematis
eager to waft
and wave at passersby

at the stone house
you will find
me

gazing out the kitchen window
on a scarce sunny September

where I sit
in silky silence
considering a cup of Ceylon tea
and saying good-bye

the Celtic tiger didn’t roar on our trip
which began and ended at the cemetery
kneeling down to
peer into the crumbling open grave
uneven sacred ground

jutted stones like concrete waves
fetid smell of bog and damp grey
we can just
make out a skull or bone
brought forward by an animal
sealing a young man’s promise
now witnessed
he did
dance on your grave
his heels bruise the earth

afterwards there is only
the hum of the pub
and hot whiskey
where cloves cling to lemon slices

Beyond the front hall,

where worn Wellies

countless times

have found their way home

Open the door now,

where the sitting room

fire gives

some warmth to your hands

Walk through the hallway,

where their pictures

hang in

gilt-edged frames

Don’t open that door,

that leads to the fields

It’s as old as the county

it sticks a little

go past the parlor; much

quieter there,

though the mantel clock

ticks loudly

to the upper room,

where you sleep

next to

cold plaster walls

the paisley

wallpaper

wears past rainstorms

one single bed

you are home

in the upper room entirely

They left the house
to squatters and animals

it sat lost
on the hilltop
disintegrating

they tell me of
days when
apple trees lined the hill
when antiques graced
the rooms
brought back
from London or Dublin
by a wealthy priest
his brother
a misguided man
wandered the streets
with tattered Dylan Thomas
and his rantings

they tell me this
this is your family

they say "when are you leaving?"
the day your arrive
you find no warm embraces
only the constant reminder
of whom they think you look like
maggie, adrian, donal ...
to prove to themselves
you are not a stranger
but a long lost
member of the
yellow kennelly's clan
whose pallor
is well known
in the county

you just might be the last
of the bad blood
but you’re ok
if you can
hold your own
at The Railway Bar