I IMAGINE MY BROTHER’S FUNERAL

By Julia Ireland

At least once a day

I form a path to his grave.

Sometimes it’s as open

as his mouth in the bar,

sometimes it’s as backfilled

as my heart. Sometimes I lay

a single flower. Sometimes I lay

on the earth itching for ritual,

to wail like a mother, to gather

women around me and sing.

Sometimes I take his body

out for dinner or paint a skull

upon my skin or lay bottle caps

on his eyes. Sometimes I swap

my brothers like chess pieces.

We bury him, we burn him,

the church is vacant and not a church

but a pub that’s full. Dad speaks

in sighs, and mum is emptier

than her own coffin.

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