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Open House: the first
“My sister, flesh of my flesh
Is returning.
Yanked back at the end of herchain
like the well trained dog she is.
Snarling, and yapping at the hand that fed her.”
I hear
darkness and smell rain.
No ritual of disbelief will stave off
The sudden remembrance of you,
The turning of a thousand atoms
In shared blood.
I hold some small piece of you
And the view engulfs me. No
Fever could burn as this.
I am consumed and lost
In the same spasm.
I left hatred behind, burned
Out of my bones,
Along with romance and illusion
But fused in the ashes
Are the last words of your letter.
Will I disappoint you;
Is the memory of me brighter than I deserve?
I count days and squander hours in
Pointless reminiscence; carried on in honour
Of your return. Sharpening weapons
I will never use.
My house is your house;
I will have to resort to hospitality
In the end. I cannot withstand them,
And must concede defeat in the eyes of the world.
I cannot slam that last door.
I must stand in welcome.
I would choke on the bile of my hypocrisy.
I would rend that flesh, my flesh,
down to the shared marrow of our bones
rip aside the decencies and shred the manners
of our generation,
until I emptied my house of you.
Open House/Blood Fetters: The second
Sly slipstream of half thought
sweetened by revengeful dreams-
almost, nearly, just about.
Under siege in the open house.
Haiku of such barbed proportion
should be tattooed on the wall;
call the hounds of war and weave
Havoc from distorted laws.
Hatreds old and new resumed
blood-ties buried like the axe
Toll the knell and seal the mouth;
night is fallen on the open house.
Geraldine Moorkens Byrne
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Geraldine Moorkens Byrne
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