Martha's Hill

Before calculus and divorce

patents and dungeons

they were mythic places

built forever

but now they’re ruins

dormant.

 

Loved they were

folk would sing and cheer

throw rice and roses

to celebrate joy

only to confound it.

 

We’re only human

but how I want to scream

looking down at this land

from what was a castle

turned church

turned ruin

turned church stroke

tourist attraction

by warring generations of families;

religion.

 

Mum and Dad have been sitting

on my kitchen table for days

not a peek out of them

but I think I’ve found the place now

so I look around for hidden eyes

not a soul about.

 

I’ve got it all figured out

dig square holes

with kitchen knife

four ways

clump out

ashes in

clump back in with a good pat

very methodical

at Martha’s Hill.

 

We’re outside the walled yard

this tree trunk

this shorn knuckle

of a foot machined

a hand from ground;

yep, they’d like it here

apart but close enough

no need for lollipop sticks

criss-cross pinned.

 

A blue plastic cordon

tells me this spot may or may not survive

the sole bench lopsided

the cement at its feet held up

by hell’s teeth reaching out from the sodden earth

no place for grass.

 

Dad goes first

always did;

a tad to the left of the stump

and from the Carte Noire coffee container

I look around

see no one

and pour a portion of him into the hole

then fling the rest of him into the air.

 

There’s not much left of him

only a little was allowed

by his mistress

and off he goes again

any which way

here and there

for once with my blessing.

 

Mum’s next, to the right

and there’s plenty of her

always was

a large tube from the directors

specially appropriated

for my use.

 

I dig the square hole again

one two three four searing cuts

deep down to the nub of the knife

that sound soil makes

on a steel edge

grating at my skull.

 

In she goes

an equal portion to Dad

and as I fling the rest of her into the air

a blustery wind blows

and throws her all over their yard

the headstones

the well kept grass

the ones that mattered

where she belongs.

 

I sit on the cold flint wall

because it’s only right

but all I can think about is her

that smile

those eyes

her hair

her scent

the heart I couldn’t reach.

 

The walk down the hill

still no one around

not even a squirrel

and all I can think of is her

the love I ruined

the castle I bombed

the love I scattered

the church she hated;

no mirror will ever temper my shame again.

 

I search for a tree to bang my head on

to draw blood

I want her to appear

so I can show her my scars

and I want her to hit me

with forgiveness.

 

It’s a year since Mum died

two for Dad

but I think only of her

her whisper

her spirit

and how she dissolved me in an instant.

 

I deserve nothing less

for my troubles

Oedipus Narcissus Hermaphrodites Adam and Eve.

 

I am guilty

in all ways

to all people

but at last Mum and Dad can now rest.