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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