I opened my eyes

again, certain I had died,

that what might have been

a lie was the truth. Gowned

in sky, sky-veiled and silent,

a flutter of women fussed

around the Virgin

while a bell sang something

jangled. I watched them

as they drifted and left

space for her, all solicitous

grace and vows taken

on the basis of the now

which is breath.

Later, you came in,

you brought my hairbrush

and my toothbrush, nothing

of much use for suffering.

Yet I still see you, hunkered –

our faces level, both of us

too young – I see my father,

blessed, blessed man,

walking through the ward

with that day's Irish Times

in one hand, and a bag,

split open, far too thin,

brimming with oranges

bought on Moore Street.