Poetry

From house to house he treks, and inn to inn, the feral dogs

Because Christmas is almost here

Make husband’s breakfast

I had never bathed anyone but a child before and it was

The guard dog

The blood cried out. The evidence was plain.

For the woman who died Tuesday of raging cancer and left two children.

After Eamon Grennan’s “Start of March, Connemara”

You ask how the gulls find the right angle in the gale,

A photocopy of my mother’s heart,