Dion’s vocal bullets,
those ricochets that killed us both.
Your grandmother cooking you tea,
while you sang her ‘Josie, hold on for me.’
My brothers, air rifles, Sulham Woods.
Your mum, The Rex, John Wayne.
Black dogs we’ve loved:
Chum, then Bob, and Vera too.
Phil Everly playing your Gibson,
James Burton telling me: “Kathryn,
You’re just a Southern girl.”
How your favourite word was Corazon,
and my favourite city was Rome.
How you thought only kids had sex outside,
how I thought you were crazy.
How Ireland was a woman and Texas was too
and Ava was the only woman I had to fear.
How my mouth looks when I speak French.
Why Charlie Rich has the edge on Jerry Lee (just).
How Bo Diddley gave you his card,
and Kenny Rogers gave me a rose,
and Bruce gave you a call.
Why a Graceland fridge magnet is art,
while a Damien Hirst is not.
How Dury and Stevie were oiks,
while Bart and Newley and were rascals.
How you dreamed of your grandmother
until your final month,
and about your first love ‘til you met your last.
And how you would always be here.
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