For Thyrza

I remember when you told me about the cow,
its eye dangling and bloodied, strung from its face,

flies buzzing
as it bowed its head to chew the winter grass;

I remember the soup you made, red with paprika
from your daughter’s garden,

black beans soft and inviting; and your words
pallid across the dining table.

When you spoke, I felt your heartbeat, imagined
your child-eyes wide as father drove you past the field;

green moons that swallowed and held forever
an eye suspended; a curious object attached to a cow.

When you spoke, I saw the grass, the bloodied lens,
father driving, unaware,

and the quiet of your passing.

© First published in Barnhouse Journal 

Lisa Reily is a former literacy consultant, dance director and teacher from Australia. Her poetry has been published in several journals, such as Amaryllis, London Grip, The High Window, Panoplyzine, Channel Magazine, and The Fenland Reed. You can find out more at lisareily.wordpress.com.