Pregnant Sister

Boots on the back stairway,

Sunday onions blacken the liver,
The sinner sits at a loss, caught.
His mother crosses her rib cage,
What is it you’ve done, son?
What’s the age of that girl?
His dad stares out at the sun
Crawling down Blue Hill Avenue.
The brothers regroup in the dark,
They got on their strong army boots,
Guys like that just might shoot
If they hear something wrong.
I mean, they did things over there
It takes years to disremember,
A girl spread eagle in the hall,
Head beat flat with a rifle butt,
The shit those brothers saw.
I mean, don’t get me wrong:
they were sent in for the killing,
They were just potato-poor
Angry Irish lads, and strong.
Are they coming up, you think?
The big one in the lead,, John,
With hands like Easter hams,
Brothers two and brothers three,
Shoulder up hard against the dark.
One turns back…
You got the ring?
A pause for blood and God.
They knock. They want
To know if Jimmy’s home,
If Jimmy’s back from the park?
To talk about the situation, you know,
Make sure things get done right.
The boys want to put a bottle stop
To the dirty talk down at O’Learys.
The boots file into the kitchen,
His mother turns to fill the ancient kettle
with the blessed water.
The father clears his throat…