What can I tell you?
The fish is defrosting on the countertop;
there is no end to the rain,
the sameness of the days is stifling and
after three years looking at our father’s headstone,
I noticed, just last Sunday,
they spelt the name of the townland wrong.
Strange that now, at thirty-four,
I resent your going, I waved you off
too young to see how I would grow
in need of a sister, I miss knowing
the tone of the squeak
your back door makes on closing;
the exact patina of the cracked cup
at the back of your press
that nobody throws out, everyone avoids.