For the victims of the Magdalene Laundries


There will be no sainthood

for you here. No hands wrung

in grief; no human heart offering.


If angels must, let them sing

in minor of mothers

who crown their sons

and punish their daughters


our lost daughters


and the sun that shines

through stained glass in spite

of it all.


Let echoes of hollow holiness

rattle every coffin into waking,

raise the truth from repose.


There is no God in the injury of



Death makes lies of the unsaid,

steals dignity from those living

and from the dead.


Enough. Take your silence

with you and leave us

with a bitter hallelujah.


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