Our Brother the Pope Poem by Rita Ann Higgins

Sorrow is better than laughter,
for by a sad countenance the heart is made better.
ECCLESIASTES


Few people know this
but Pope John the 23rd
was a member of our family.
His real name was
Pope John the 23rd Higgins.

He lived with us in Ballybrit,
I can't say he had his own room
but he didn't need it;
he had his own house,
our house.

He was there
when our father
brought home the mackerel,
when Yahweh Curran
whistled his way
round the twelve cottages.

He was there when we
painted the house
for the races
and when we
got the new range
Stanley the 9th.

When he died
nothing was the same.
The mackerel began to stink,
Yahweh Curran didn't whistle
for a solid month,
the picture show in Silk's Shed
was just a runaway wagon
with three wheels.

Our mother cried and cried.
Saint Jude and Saint Agnes
let her down big time,
as for poor Philomena,
she couldn't conjure up

a minor miracle if her life depended on it,
she was gone by the board.

The neighbours who were well clued in
queued up round the cottages
to offer their condolence,
they were soaking in grief.

We're sorry about the mackerel
they said one after the other,
holding their noses.
Our mother cried louder.