28.6

On the anniversary of your passing,

I took air, and took wine,

and took care not to remember

with precision twelve months before

when you left your weight behind,

spoke your last apology,

and (for the first time in my life)

went against my will.

I noticed the physical nature

of a glass in my hand,

a taste in my mouth,

the sense of having sense,

and saw grass cuttings, light and dried,

spirited by a restless wind

to mingle mid

the still respiring lawn.

Now, fully decades since you left,

I am uncomfortable still.

Your absence dresses me in coarse cloth.

I am pricked; unable to rest.

I made your excuses. Let rip.

Accepted creation’s cruellest cut.

But, I am. You are not.

Nothing’s better. 

Kevin MacAlan

Kevin MacAlan lives in rural Co Waterford. He has an MA in Creative Writing, and has contributed to journals, including The Waxed Lemon, An Áitiúil, Howl, Recesses, Stripes, Bindweed, Purple Unicorn Media, Datura, The Fish Barrel Review, and The Martello. He was longlisted for The National Poetry Competition 2023 and The Fish Poetry Prize 2024.