The tombstones bask, reptilian, in the east-rising sun.
Young grass, clipped low and tight stands obedient-
each blade recruited stiff and attentive;
like good green soldiers.
You lie here, under my feet, six down in a place internal, eternal you,
wrapped in your Sunday Best sealed in, packed, airtight;
like my son’s school lunch. But your box is not Fort Knox.
Life finds a way via orifices like ear and mouth;
like that point on the soft skin of your inner arm,
that crease of skin so delicate, like tracing paper,
where the cannula punctured purpling pinpricks
to deliver sweet nothings, soothing, lulling, killing
you off in the sweetest way-
now blackened by passing, it remains a gaping full stop,
misplaced without a sentence- they swarm like bees, flock like
birds to it, through it,
They move, mix, make more,
until your body, now bloated, teems with la vida oculta-
cultures copulating, orgies in your organs,
necrotic erotica, your dead loins still bearing fruit,
you, a host gracious, most generous.
They thrive on the soft parts of you, Dad.
Feasting festerous, coaxing muscle, tendon, cartilage away from
the bones of you,
breaking you down like a reduction, a fine jus, sublime,
refined, you re-defined, distilled, still you, instilled,
your memories dismembered, made disparate, your essence infused,
soul sweated down, adding flavour,
making soup for the Cedar
and still you
under my feet.
Jennifer Creedon lives in Ballyleague, a small village in the west of Ireland with her husband, 3 children and a schizophrenic cat. By day she works as a clerical officer and by night, when her house eventually falls quiet, she writes. Her poetry has appeared in ‘The Galway Review’, ‘Tales from the Forest’, ‘A New Ulster’, ‘Into the Void’ and has recently been shortlised for ‘The Roscommon Poets Prize’ featured in the Strokestown International Poetry Festival.