From womb to wood she carried him. From baptism to furnace she cried. Her veil silvers as she grieves. As she’s forced to let him go she tightly holds the string of faith. Pressing palms on the abacus of prayer. Watched by the stained smiling Virgin. But the mother mild cannot look at her. At the wake, the drunken pall bearer is carried out laughing haughtily then sobbing. The donnish Aunt contorts in revulsion as she stubs her fag into a vol-au-vent. Back at home a mother sits in his room, Staring at his shape in a quilted loom. Wearing his Chanel. Pressing her face in to his towel. Wanting to pray but unable too, this disgusts her for God disgusts her and stretched across a scarred stomach She can see he lived, and should never have died.