Thursday, 14 April 2016

April Poetry 2016/14

After the Day

My father didn't know how to speak to me
His grief overwhelming
his dead wife reflected in my fourteen year old face.
He ignored me, Went to work.
Watched television and went to bed early,
smoking cigarettes as if they were oxygen tanks
in the thin atmosphere of depression.
I turned to religion
looking for answers in the catechism,
hope in the depictions of Bridget, of Mary,
of Ceridwen, of Morrigan;
in sprayer and blood magic and sacrifice
but She gave no more reply than my father.
My sister did her best,
drove me to school in a van filled with saddles
seventies music and the smell of wet dog,
bought me yoghurt and frosted cereal
but the only time I could relax my stoic face
was walking the dogs in the summer dusk,
when the bats swooped over the canal
feasting on gnats and midges
and there was no-one but the darkness
to hear my sobbing.

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