a love song for irish funerals

[cridecoeur]

You may think of her as your winning number,
As long as you tell her she’s lovely,
Though not that you love her.
She does not like the taste of those words
Or the shape of their syllables.
She shines like a star that you keep in your bedroom,
On the dresser beside your table lamp.
She has lovely bones but is empty, mostly,
Aside from her skeleton and the wax and wane of her face,
And in her pocket she carries a little man,
Who fills her mouth with words she cannot taste,
And a taste she cannot rid herself of,
Though it does not suit her,
Like the jackets hanging in your closet that you bought
From a Goodwill in 1998, the year your mother left you,
Sitting at the kitchen table with her ghost,
And words that filled your mouth,
A token of the little man, hiding in your breast pocket,
Moving your tongue against your teeth too soon to be polite.