Ruby

You lay as on a beach

Spindley legs entwined

Nails bloody red



Waxy flesh, draping brittle bones

Like a golden yellow stole



Courtesy, not of a Floridian tan,

But a boulder of cancer

Blocking the duct



Visions of you in your days of yore

A lusty Jewish broad

Vocals etched with

Sediment of Scotch and tobacco



And as you gasped your last

I begged my God to make it fast

Bereft of drugs to ease your pain

I thought of French's sweet refrain



As your daughter wrestled with traffic

On the Finchley Road

I climbed in bed and held you tight



And from crazy Celt to dying Jew

I did the only thing I knew

Sang

"Are you right there, Ruby, are you right?"





by Bronagh Murphy, my late lamented sister-in-law