“Dear Eavan” by C. Murray

Eavan Boland (1944-2020)

Break the glass
that holds morning's flame.
Proceed from your room— 

I have become so aware of my hands,
their folding of things
of too-sweet smelling fabrics
  (washing machine is crocked)
their patting of panes, pain, 
administering drugs or massages to
a dying cat—
I chose not to believe your death.

the pitch of kids’ voices subdued
by the old ancient
box-hedge. They are out-sung

by sparrows and 
wrens jaunting through, 
skitting overhead,
They are always present in
the halls,

their halls.

There is a bright
bright moon tonight.
Blackbirds are always last to sing,
to sound the alert
 It is night,
 it is night.

I lit a purple candle for you.
It smells of berries,
of hot-house pinks— 

© C. Murray

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