The Pleasure Of Small Sorries

 

the phrases cling on so firmly
like hot tar on our foreheads
so heavily spread across reason
no quick peeling or washing off
only a familiar, smarting pain

for now we attempt to stay low
so the light seeks out no one
time alone for magical cleaning
our warm, gentle miracle water
the pleasure of small sorries

this snapping dog in our lives
chewing on the best of things
then howling a wretched truth
awaiting that familiar return
our old hunger for surrenders

cosy love has landed so easily
territories delicately marked
absent now the master's voice
calm after the midnight feast
the pleasure of small sorries



© Copyright, 2007. Seamus Kearney.

The Kid Sparrow

 

last night I dreamt that our Edith was still with us
no, not the hair salon Edith, I mean tragic eah-deet
that’s right, je ne regrette rien and the hymn to love
la môme piaf is what they called her: the kid sparrow
dead at 47, looking more like some frail, elderly lady

she was in the middle of a duo with our gorgeous Elton
a right scream, up on stage at Caesars Palace in Vegas
a new romance with the Americans with songs in English
her man, Marcel, now a survivor of that terrible crash
the shock that clearly killed her miraculously erased

oh, she looked so well: no stoop, glorious hair flowing
repeating her prayer to the heavens, raving about Paris
she sang Mon Dieu, but that had already been answered,
no more losses, battles for sleep or memories to hide
she reached new high notes with la joie and la passion!



© Copyright, 2007. Seamus Kearney.