Sunday 17 December 2017

Every Little Lie

Darren Donohue

My grandmother smoked Sweet Afton and

Wore whiskers like a walrus. She died

Sitting up, a wedding album open in her lap.

She called me "Sonny".

Each morning I sat quietly upon her bed

Watching her dress. Her body was

Smooth and round as a globe.

I often curled up there, pushing my sins

Into her staying hand, the world shrinking

To accommodate my first crop of gratitude,

Carefully harvested almost without knowing.

I called her "Anna Mae".

Each night she knelt by my bedside,

Blowing wild stories into my ear.

Every little lie – a slate in the

Roof of memory. Every word, scouting ahead,

Clearing a path through the long grass.

Then the terrible moving away,

Then an ever shortening wedge of light,

Then the squeak and roar of darkness.

Irish Independent

Promoted Links

Entertainment Newsletter

Going out? Staying in? From great gigs to film reviews and listings, entertainment has you covered.

Promoted Links

Editors Choice

Also in Entertainment