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Bird Belling

 
Thereís a bird belling in the eaves of the house.
We look up at the ceiling because for some reason
it sounds like itís in the centre of the room Ė
like a huge tweeting light bulb Ė 
and weíre surprised not to see it.
 
At the same time Iím wondering how many people
will find themselves writing about the woman
who accidentally joined a search party for herself.
 
And should I give a kidney to Hugo Williams?
I canít remember if Iím blood type O ...
And there is a risk.
 
I canít take risks with two small children.
 
The boys saw the dog kill a baby rabbit
out in the woods this afternoon.
 
I tried to encourage B to show some emotion Ė
Didnít it make you sad seeing that poor tiny fluffly little thing Ö?
 
But no. Heís a bit like Matisse in his final years
with his bright strips of paper and his scissors.
 
I am his Lydia, sweeping up after him,
preparing his crackers and cheese.
 
His little brother calls out, ĎMummy, Mummy, Iím crying!í
to which I reply, ĎI have no idea where I am.í

(Poetry Ireland Review: The Rising Generation, Issue 118)