(A poem about a group of Protestant workers taken from their bus on their way home and shot by the IRA)
Christ’s teeth ascended with him into heaven:
Through a cavity in one of his molars
The wind whistles: he is fastened for ever
By his exposed canines to a wintry sky.
I am blinded by the blaze of that smile
And by the memory of my father’s false teeth
Brimming in their tumbler: they wore bubbles
And, outside of his body, a deadly grin.
When they massacred the ten linen workers
There fell on the road beside them spectacles,
Wallets, small change, and a set of dentures:
Blood, food particles, the bread, the wine.
Before I can bury my father once again
I must polish the spectacles, balance them
Upon his nose, fill his pockets with money
And into his dead mouth slip the set of teeth.