I IMAGINE MY BROTHER’S FUNERAL
- Dark Poets Club
- Jul 30
- 1 min read
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.