Influenza, 1918

The dying woman roars again
and the stench of lavender and disinfectant
attacks our revolted senses.
Her awful roaring tears through the bedrooms
and echoes through the great floors below
and down into the dark cellar
where their father sketched a dragon
across the wall for the children at Halloween.
Her roars hammer at the children's heads
and terror stains the deepest well of their minds.
The influenza will fling her howling
she believes into everlasting hellfire
and though she is a guiltless woman
she roars in her delirium
for God to pardon her and cleanse her soul.
Her pallid husband goes in and out of the room.
The women shush the children away
for fear they will tumble with her into the pit.
The softness in her voice is gone;
its hard horror dries up their mouths.
The cattle bellow in the yard outside
and the doctor's Model-T Ford
importantly rat-a-tats up the avenue.
The gravel patiently awaits
the wheels of the inevitable hearse.
The women drink tea but terror drives taste away.
They reek of disinfectant and lavender.
They long for fresh air, trees and flowers,
a man yoking a horse to go to the fields.
The woman roars again: forgive me!
Her children press their hands over their ears
but now it is too late for that:
her terror has begun to ring
and echo down the passage to their graves.

Published, 2000, in Poetry Ireland, Spring issue