There is only time for this
Updated: Nov 20
From where does our hope, our joy, our ecstasy, come –
from our tragedy is your answer.
I’m stuck, like a windless cloud,
as uninspired as my thin, uncut, uncoloured hair.
All this reading, I tell myself, will surely
tripwire me into writing a poem or review
or something soon. For now, all I can do
is mourn the loss of our Eavan Boland.
He’s hauled the vacuum cleaner up the stairs
and the rest is up to me. Or I could go out,
get Vitamin D. But the robin’s perching
on the swan that desperately needs painting,
so I figure the garden is his domain for the moment,
and stare at the screen instead, fingering
the goose-bumps rising up on my nape.
In the workshop now, Michael’s charring
his eleventh wooden carving, a subconscious
odyssey, which is coming to represent a hazardous
waste facility, or the state of his teeth.
No dentist for the duration. Doing, he says,
keeps me from fixing on the pain. And I know
it’ll distract me, too, from trawling through
the terrifying news. I decide to grab a bite
for energy first. But we’ve run out of bread
and there’s no more chocolate. Just a pair
of speckled bananas in the table bowl on the brink
of a journey to the bin for organic waste.
So I take the sorry-looking fruit into the kitchen,
cleaving to each other like the couple
in Eavan’s Quarantine. But this is a lockdown,
not a famine. I rummage for coconut oil
and nuts and the rest, and hey presto, after thirty
minutes or so....