the madrigal, volume iii.v
by jenny byrne
In the dream she said they were moving to Sitges.
Needing to hear it from his own dry mouth I
sought my father out in a myriad of rooms
full of distorted faces I did not know
Stairs narrowed, ascending on tippy toes
I peered into every vacuum space
calling “Daddy” like a child. Ricochet
of echo bruised my ringing ears
He lay on his back, as a corpse
moulded flat and still into the mattress
a featureless playdoh man — no bones.
Adrenaline soured my tongue in preparation
foaming, a rabid cur I spat obscenities
slit and spilled deep bellied grief for sacred
binds dissolved, sickly as wet candyfloss.
Acid tears tattooed my face, throat scalded with
bile until no more sound would come
A cuckoo crashed into the window pane
thrashing wildly — demanding
I felt nothing for it.
Gasping through a throat of melted chords
I left him nurturing the pitiful bird, as
his own chicks fell silently from the nest.
Jenny is originally from the seaside town of Bray. Being near the sea always feels like home. Her husband is Galwegian, and they love to spend time there as often as they can. Always curious and drawn to learning she often says she will stop studying, but never gets around to that. Her biggest achievement to date is being a mother to two lovely people. She is quite new to the writing scene and enjoying both it and the writing community very much. Her work has been published in the Galway Review and Impspired.