Tombstone

I thought men never cry,
though you said they sometimes do.

Be assured, mama,
I will keep my school shoes white.

Papa and I stumbled through tangerine twilight,
entangled in emotions like a spider’s web.

The house still smelled of your breath,
still echoed with your laughter
and the smile draped across your face
when you bent to a burst of magnolias.

The nights brought papa and I no sleep.
People appeared, disappeared.
There was consolation.
Confusion.
Chattering
and prayers.

I sprinkled rose water over your grave,
and after the prayers were read,

papa took off his glasses,
wiped them
outside and in.

And I was left
with the strange desire to become a tombstone,
all muddy and lichen-white.

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Amy Barry writes poems and short stories. She is published in anthologies, journals, and press and e-zines globally. Her poems have been translated into many languages. Recipient of Neruda Award 2017 (Poetry) Crispiano, Italy. Highly Commended (Poetry) in SiarSceal International Literary Festival in 2017 and 2019. Highly Commended in the Francis Ledwidge Award 2019. Shortlisted for the Roscommon Poets Prize 2020. Featured in the RTE Radio One Extra in Reverberations Series 2. She has performed her work in Ireland and internationally.

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