By Christine Byrne
NOTES ON AN IRISH FUNERAL
My father notes I’ve stopped cutting my hair
(I had sun poisoning and an agenda)
Notes the weather. And my figure.
I was disturbed by the distance
of the rearranged and less in love, of Irish funerals
where we drink too much
& mom, away with her guinness.
It was an inconvenience to my other life—
The white hair,
white hands, white
Flashes of childhood, gripped and flinching
An over-blonde mother’s craze,
Vices. God. Pork tenderloin,
inchings and inklings
I never planned on coming back home where every building
Is greased with where I stood with my fists at my chin,
screaming hit me then throwing myself
Barres of Irish funeral, where my father, fatherless, scoops my face—
God they’ve done a number on you
& the salmon sheet walls
& the pastes of vintage photographs
the little Irish prayerbook, to be buried
& both my parents
disassemble his life
In the room of whispering guests.
