Above us hangs a chandelier of beating hearts the hearts of generations past of cherished pets of pigs and hens and cows slaughtered for us to eat with greasy laughing fingers
music plays in amongst the clink of glasses the scrape of cutlery the shrieks of joy and fear but silence bides its time and in that silence muffled thumps
hidden in the weaves and piles below are pinprick specks of fallen blood barely rarely noticed reminding us of death and life before and life and death to come
The black ball of fear sits at the back of the garden rolling imperceptibly closer with every breeze it is not born of guilt not this time but the horrifying inevitability of impending endings
I can do nothing else but wait for it soon I will be able to peer right inside it to see, to feel the endings that have been stacking up blank, black dominos
here, in the pale of winter the wind is unflinching perpetual has edges the endings close in blotting out the cold sun I steel myself, hoping for birdsong and sky
Steve Denehan lives in Kildare, Ireland with his wife Eimear and daughter Robin. Recent publication credits include Better Than Starbucks, Fowl Feathered Review, The Blue Nib, The Opiate, Sky Island Journal, Poetry Quarterly, Evening Street Review, The Folded Word, Ink In Thirds, Crack The Spine, The Cape Rock, Visions International and Third Wednesday. He has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize and his chapbook, "Of Thunder, Pearls and Birdsong" is available from Fowlpox Press.