Poems by Brian Kirk (Ireland)

Published in The Ofi Press issue 48

Sleep

Close the door, but leave the window open

so we can hear the distant shouts

of children, barking dogs, car engines dropping

gear to make a turn. We’ll lie a little longer

while the house is ours alone.

Listen to the tapping of the blind against

the sash and close your eyes,

but leave your heart wide open so I can

whisper things I typically forget to say

like thank you, love you, miss you

even when you’re only hours away. Don’t

be concerned, let engines, dogs and voices

chorus rapture while we sleep.

Funeral

In some parts of the world before the feasting starts,

before the drinks are poured a libation for the dead

is spilled on arid ground. Some people value those

who came before, but we know better.

Old stories are nothing more than wives’ tales

and when we perish we rot in the ground,

go back to nature in the meanest way.

At funerals the one least present is always

the deceased; we do not see the dead among us,

guiding us, reminding us of who we are

and where we’re from. We eat and drink,

laugh and kiss, lives flavoured by our loss,

all aches and joys endured or relished

in the shadow of a closing door.