They found the bodies of 800 babies
In a septic tank at an Irish home for unwed mothers
Their only gravestone was
A news story in the Washington Post
No word on whether or not
A fog of last breaths
Lit the air each morning
Seeping out of the wet ground
Something read over morning coffee
And I cannot help but think
I said the words “starlit distant ocean”
In a memorial poem for my wife’s mother
And I said the words “How dare you pity this man?”
In my father’s eulogy
And I said a thousand, thousand things about other things
But I would struggle to say the 800 words that each one
Must have had
As a name.
Here at last, we shall be free. 