written by Barbara Dunne. Barbara is a writer, artist and facilitator living in the Connemara Gaelteacht. She is a widowed parent. Her poetry has been most recently published in Drawn to the Light Press, New Word Order, orangepeel, HOWL 23; New Irish Writing and the Storms Journal. She is currently working on her debut poetry collection.
Hands balled around sweets and coins
in the pockets of a faded blue apron.
You sit behind the kitchen door
on a wooden chair, rocking
by the kitsch kitchen cabinet
with the pull-down table. Blending
with the blank walls. Ankles swollen
and swathed in beige bandage. Ulcers
left your feet tapping out a steady rhythm
across the tiles— a tune only you could hear.
Your dove grey bun is loose above your face.
The spidery hand of time, distracted or amazed
by the crazy confetti pattern on the linoleum
had neglected to knit loose nets of wrinkles across.
When I bend to kiss your cheek goodbye
the soft shock of your silk skin, roots me to the floor.
