As a girl I could not
fathom why she never
wore the
mother-of-pearl brooch, enhanced
with clusters of
diamantes, Mother etched
across its middle in
copperplate script.
Like a magpie, I took
it sometimes from
the box on her
dressing table, tipped it so
light caught the
pinky-green of its pearly hue,
dappled the ceiling
with sprightly streaks.
Older, I picture her accepting the gift
decades before from one of us eight kids,
probably hating its kitsch, but smiling
nonetheless with tolerant grace
most likely thinking
as we swarmed around her,
As if I needed reminding.
Looking into My Mother’s Handbag
After Maura Dooley
Powder from her compact moon streaked
black-sky lining, settled like snow
in pockets, dredged zipped boreens.
Under clouds of crumpled handkerchief
her brother’s coltish face looks out
the grainy window of a memorial card.
There is the book with the mythical
bird from Liverpool. St. Christopher wades
with Christ, unchained, beneath her purse.
I spy green glass rosary beads curled
asleep in a corner; pick them up
by their flimsy metal crucifix
feel the sacrificial figure
beneath my thumb, bent knees.
Unfurl the pious coil, let beads spill
in staggered rosary, hyphenated
waterfall, let them pool in my palm.
Curl fingers not allowing
a precious, jagged drop escape.
I do this again and again,
trying to recapture her.
Bern Butler is a writer and teacher from Galway Ireland. Her poetry has appeared in Force 10, The Ropes Anthology, The Galway Review, Vox Galvia, North West Words, The Blue Nib, Pendemic.ie, Abridged 0-60, The Ireland Chair of Poetry, Ink Sweat & Tears, She holds an MA in Writing from NUI Galway.
Beautiful poems. So evocative.
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