Letras
The weight of me in your arms.
A photo of the two of us in Fitzgerald's Park.
Three years of age I was.
The weight of the pair of us.
Our weight together.
The weight of your hat shading your laughter.
My weight as you bore me for nine months.
The weight of sitting, getting up, lying down.
Your weight that I never lifted from the
ground – before burying you in the ground.
Your living weight.
Your dead weight.
The weight of words rising and
falling between us, the wingbeat of swans.
The heavy weight of prayers.
The feather weight of lilting.
The middle weight of memory, ancient spiral.
The weight of the music of your country voice in the city.
The weight of the lipstick on your lips airing vowels.
The weight of your fragrance in the bedroom after giving birth.
The weight of your maternal weariness asking me kindly to go outside.
The weight of your relations.
The weight of intimacy.
The weight of ancestry.
The weight of neighbours.
The weight of tribal lore.
The weight of the great world.
The weight of priests.
The weight of brothers.
The weight of drink.
The weight of history.
The weight of humour.
The weight of those who got away.
The weight of the otherworld.
The weight of your faith.
The sorrowful weight of your fear.
The weight of your shame.
The weight of the two of us as we met for lunch in the city.
The weight of my patience waiting for you at the chapel door.
The weight of your patience waiting for me to enter.
The weight of your praying.
The weight of the crosses of the world.
The weight of your appetite.
The weight of your lingering over food.
The airy weight of a girl stepping it out at a dance.
The weight of the accordion on your shoulders.
The weight of your two knees keeping time with dances.