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Jenny BornholdT
Last Days


L 2ong days of sun

like the ones 

my father died in. 

All through the month

the weather held him

the way it held us

through that time –

conversations in chairs

on the terrace outside

his room, eyes shaded

from the glare.

We wondered what came

to him then in those

‘solemn moments

of dying’ – his parents,

maybe? Our mother?

A shooting trip when he

was younger? Us

In blue corduroy pinafores

plucking geese.


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  Dublin Poetry Review: Éigse Átha Cliath

                                                                                        Section 1 ~ Issue 21a