The Farm in Ireland

The Farm in Ireland

It’s my anniversary day, seven a.m. I’m late by any measure, a soup spoon a bowl, the milk in the cows, twelve hours too old. So full, utters churn cream. Though chores breed like wild hare, my feet can’t find my shoes.

All I can think about are the armies, the advancing divisions of sycamore at the end of the far pasture, ablaze against the grey walls of November. It’s there fires climb ladders toward the sky like a new religion. Seasons are something we shared.

There’s a half moon hanging, as white as any broken tooth. It’s near the horizon, aching its down. I imagine the sun too ashamed to raise, ride its ceaseless skies.

There’s a cemetery nearby as full as a freezer, a nineteenth century convenience for those who believe in saving souls.

I don’t, and that’s why I still sleep with a measure of mist of her perfume. In bed each night my body betrays me, it feels like an affair.

When she packed honey in the Ball canning jars, she said a tiny sprig of Rosemary blossom was good for luck. I’m mindful, but not enough as my day breaks my broken heart.

Dan A. Cardoza

Dan has a MS Degree in Education from UC, Sacramento, Calif.  He is the author of four poetry Chapbooks, and a new book of fiction, Second Stories. His has work in 101 Words, Adelaide, California Quarterly, Chaleur, Cleaver, Confluence, UK, Dissections, Door=Jar, Drabble, Entropy, Esthetic Apostle, Fiction Pool, Foxglove, Frogmore, UK, High Shelf Press, New Flash Fiction Review, Rue Scribe, Runcible Spoon, Skylight 47, Spelk, Spillwords, Riggwelter, Stray Branch, Urban Arts, Zen Space, Tulpa and Zeroflash.


Previous Post Next Post