Go to Shaws for white sheets,
Egyptian cotton, a high thread
count mind, to lay me out.
Use candles in that bottom
drawer, John XX111 thrice
blessed, making a bishop
of Tom Ryan back in ’63.
Light them so I will find
my way through d’eye
of the needle, ease tight
squeeze, deaden clamouring
at the gates. Let me pass
without incident for what
I have left unresolved.
Copyright © Anne Fitzgerald 2017
