Mary Maher
Brother
Sometimes we sweep the leaves
into the fire
or chop down a branch
that sways too much
so our arguments
can shift.
We add sticks and words
and the chair without legs.
We are not keen
on the ash that follows.
We have matches
which flutter
into dud starts.
Letters for kindling.
Cigarettes help us
remember the boy
who called our dad Timber.
We shouted, “He’s a carpenter
like Jesus.” Stub ends
help us concentrate.
We remember coalfires.
The grate.
Coal coming not from trees
but from our mother’s grit.
Page(s) 133
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