Maria McCarthy
Our Father
Our Father, who is in Heaven, you gave us
our crisps and a bottle of R White’s
on a Friday night. We knelt by the bed,
hands pressed: forgive us our trespasses,
before we could know what trespasses meant.
Harder to pray when you slipped
from the pew to the call of the glass,
the first drawn pint after evening Mass.
I would go up to receive and return
from the rail to an empty seat.
Did the Lord forgive as you filtered
your trespasses? Forgive, as I refused
to utter your prayer? Sleep in peace,
Our Father, all trespasses forgiven.
Page(s) 6
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- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
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