Father: Every Morning of His Life
by Donal MahoneyThe cup he took his tea from
all those years was Army surplus,
made of tin. It whirredto the spoon he wound in it
15 times per lump of sugar.
We who slept in rooms just offthe kitchen rose like ghosts
to the winding of that spoon.
In my house, now, morningsSue’s the first downstairs. She
scalds the leaves and wonders:
Will the winding ever end?