Dying for Ireland

I am already well past grieving myself by the time

I finally get to this morning,

but cringe at thoughts of my father at the front door explaining

my mother’s Antigonian wailing.

Six weeks without sleep, three without solids,

a classic lack of attention to basic self-caring tasks like washing and shaving, and the latest phase— diabolic—

the babble ceaselessly prompting.

Are enough for me to be pleased at the prospect

of draining

away on the bed

with bloodied muscles twitching, my fingers and eyes

deliriously  trembling.

In true Irish martyr fashion

I’ve decided not to give a warning.