for Bridget Cleary, 1869 (?) – March 15th, 1895
The rasping sound of the key in the lock
as I enter, walking where she walked.
Looking out the window, I wonder if the Clearys
dug down and came up in the clear.
From the house, I take the saucepan,
shovel, spade, and can.
The spade is new and the handle stained,
held by one with an oily hand.
I sniff it—paraffin oil.
The shovel has traces of black, boggy soil
like the ground where yesterday
my good men uncovered her body.
Did the Clearys wash this filthy witness
from their hands? Did they wash
at all after digging down, brainsickly
after seeing the gilded face of their lady.
I remember the stains on her husband’s
suit—
by God, the man handled the spade.
Milena Williamson is from Swarthmore, Pennsylvania and has lived in Belfast since 2017. She has a PhD in poetry from the Seamus Heaney Centre at Queen’s University Belfast. A recipient of the Eric Gregory Award, she published her debut pamphlet Charm for Catching a Train in 2022 (Green Bottle Press). Her writing about Bridget Cleary has been supported by the Arts Council of Northern Ireland and the Ireland Chair of Poetry Trust.
More work by Milena Williamson
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