#104 Kevin Brophy 'The house she kept'

How many mornings were there

when I rose warm into the icy air

and found a shirt washed and ironed

by my mother and put it on

and did up the blue and white striped

school tie with a clever knot.

It was a finite number, though I could have

done it forever happily enough, not thinking

what else a winter morning might be for.

How many mornings were there

when I rose, clammy from some nightmare

into a brittle morning, fearing everything

but the neatness of an old clean blue shirt

that still buttoned up to my neck

where a tie would soon lie, noose and flourish,

not imagining my father doing just this

in another room in that house of chronic crisis

and routines that promised something like salvation.

How many mornings were there

when my mother felt invisible as we poured

the bright morning milk on cereal

and pushed lunch into a bag

and clicked the door behind us, leaving the day

like a valley bitter with shadows behind us in that house she kept.