Ronan Barbour

the silent church

there are pictures in a box
I no longer need to put on my walls
I see them
and the moving pictures 
deep inside

you nude on the beach
by the old castle ruin
after coming together
I chased your warm sandy bottom
into the waves
where I later caught you 
on my camera from shore
floating
in the mirror blue 
your bare back and head turned
looking out into the deep sea 
my Selkie

there’s the one of you exiting the quiet country church
wearing a dress and flushed grin
having just committed sin on the second storey  
below the organ
doggy on your knees on the sharp spongy carpet between the
last pew and balcony rail 
in view of the alter below
and the door to where the priest lived 
but
he did not come

and there’s the one of us together 
newly married 
the last of that 
particular 
summer series 

there are of course none of me alone 
in the apartment you left behind 
none of me cradling your clothes on the floor

but there do exist moving pictures you did not see
like me visiting you in hospital
having waited
through the pain

feeding you, my Turkish Delight
my love from a tube
pumpkin ale from California
adoring the very furrow of your brow
loving 
whatever taste
on your lips