a poem about the mass grave at Tuam
I’m the local schoolmistress
who worked hard to know
the zilch I knew about this.
I’m the Department Inspector
the questions not to ask.
I’m the concerned citizen who never
heard their heavy clogs go,
by forced marches, up the Dublin Road.
I’m the editor of the Tuam Herald,
who talked instead about
the Pope’s visit.
I’m the Government Minister whose pink skull
baldly admired the particular yellow
of the roses by the newly whitewashed wall,
and thanked the nuns for their work.
I’m the County Councillor concerned
about the cost to the ratepayer
-per skeleton- of piling that many small ones
of whom no one had ever heard,
into a disused hole in the ground
–one big concrete sarcophagus–
no one knew anything about.