Jason Barry

Perhaps this is the way it ought to be,
The coastal light is tame and beautiful.
A wave of silence spreads across the sea
Beneath the two-tone plumage of a gull.

If what we are is bone and memory,
And sensory is synonym for soul—
I wonder what will then become of me,
When slate-white feathers wash up in the lull.

When slate-white feathers wash up in the lull,
I wonder what will then become of me.
Is sensory a synonym for soul,
If what we are is bone and memory?

Beneath the two-tone plumage of a gull,
A wave of silence spreads across the sea.
The coastal light is tame and beautiful,
Perhaps this is the way it ought to be.

The night we heard her say it it was late,
was after Christmas dinner, after drinks
were served and all the gifts were opened up.
We sat and watched the fire for a while,
sipping wine in silence as it flickered.
When everyone had said goodbye and gone,
a storm blew in and covered up the road.
This year, the fire burns again but she
is gone. The children play out in the yard,
and grownups shift around in leather chairs,
their glasses empty on the wooden shelf.
A year ago she said that she would go.
The time she mentioned Heaven it was late,
the swaying pine trees caked in frozen snow.