Poetry

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,

Brick-thick walls, portholes, circular doors,

He splits wood,

So easy to mistake him for the crucifier,

In her prime, as Sister Administrator

The culprit’s all but impossible to find

In her prime, as Sister Administrator