(in response to this week's awful discovery in Tuam)
Bones in
the soil,
broken bones.
Bones that
sheltered a mind,
and a heart.
That had a
name,
that rested
on a pillow,
that might
have run a race,
maybe won if
they were fast-
moving
bones.
That might
have grown
to adulthood,
crooked
around a lover’s neck
and been
happy then.
Might have aged to venerability,
or been
fond old bones
carrying
liver spots,
showering gappy
smiles
on grandchildren.
Bones,
those bones
in the soil.
