I kissed my father once, when he wasn’t
looking, not embarrass him
in the presence of his god, but to explore
the prospect of how it might
have been in life as it now was in death.
And in that moment
I came to terms with the implications of my
treachery.
His skin like blank parchment waiting for words
of fulfilment,
but I could fine no words to fill that empty space
between us,
just a thought that came uninvited into my
head, that, at any moment,
his eyes might snap open like the slats of a
blind suddenly released from
from its bindings, dust motes dancing in the
warm rays of his resurrection,
and I would look into his eyes and see my
own treachery staring back,
a truer reflection I might never see again. That
then he might jump up and out of
his gown of shrunken flesh, gripping my throat
with bony fingers, kneading
and squeezing as if to choke the last treacherous
breaths from my body.
I dismissed the thought, stroked the crucifix
in his hand,
leaned down, kissed him for the first time, the very
last time,
his penny weary eyes closed tight against my
final act of treachery.
Dennis Moriarty was born in London, England and now lives in Wales. Married with five grown up offspring Dennis likes walking the dog in the mountains, reading and writing.
In 2017 he won the Blackwater poetry competition and went to county Cork in Ireland to read his work at the international poetry festival. Dennis has had poems featured in many publications including Blue nib, Our poetry archive, Setu bilingual, The passage between and others.
