Michael Longley
When I told you on the day my mother died
'I am an orphan now', you crouched over me And protected me with your shoulders and hair. Your tears fell from the ceiling on to my face.
I could not believe that when you came to die Your breasts would die too and go underground. Your nakedness, mirrored in the windowpane, Made of God our icon and our peeping tom.
Page 1, Poetry Ireland Review Issue 26