Suddenly awake, you would banish
The pious priest from your beside
While exultant tears of your daughters
Score the background.
Your cool, thin-veined hands
Direct one daughter to sing.
And to the others, you’d say:
Cover all mirrors, I’ll not gaze back.
Wash your hands in a bucket of water—
I won’t cling to your fingers.
Leave through the same door you entered—
I’ll not follow.
In memory of my father, Richard Francis Mahoney
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