James Mulhern’s writing has appeared in literary journals over one hundred and fifty times and has been recognized with many awards. In 2015, Mr. Mulhern was granted a writing fellowship to Oxford University. That same year, a story was longlisted for the Fish Short Story Prize. In 2017, he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His novel, Give Them Unquiet Dreams, is a Kirkus Reviews Best Book of 2019. He was shortlisted for the Aesthetica Creative Writing Award 2021 for his poetry. Recently, two of his novels were Finalists for the United Kingdom’s Wishing Shelf Book Awards.

Brother Mike

You rarely speak your feelings,

silent, perceptive, and broody.



When we were children, we knelt

after Communion. The smells

of cold stone, incense, and shellac

surrounded us. What did you pray for?



Years later, you drove me from the airport.

I told you about a sick friend.

There was sadness in your profile

and you crossed yourself.

We continued onward through the traffic.



But the moment had stilled me.

I felt a bit of awe, or was it

what we call the sacred?

I understood church and why we went.

I heard the loudness of your silence,

the words of your prayer,

and the creed in your gesture.



I think I understood you more

and felt our Communion,

together and again.

Last Supper

He woke to the dog whimpering and scratching his arm.

The phone rang. His wife answered. “It’s for you.”

She gave him the handset. “Okay,” he said to the caller.

She wrapped a pillowcase around his bloody arm.

“My father’s dead. Can you shine my shoes?”

 

On the floor below, something crashed.

They walked down the stairs in silence 

because that’s what he wanted.

In the living room, the cheap print of Davinci’s

Last Supper lay on the floor, the frame splintered.

 

At the wake, he knelt before his father’s coffin, 

said an Our Father, and kissed his forehead.

 

As they left, he asked his wife

when they’d last seen him.

“Just before Easter. We took him out to dinner.”

“He was mostly good, but he did some bad things,” he said.

“Nobody’s perfect.” She touched his shoulder.

 

At home, he knelt by the shattered print.

His shoulders drooped, and his back shook.

She knew he was thinking of that last supper.

Maybe he wished he’d said more.

Maybe he had regrets.

 

She wanted to tell him he’d been a good son,

that his father had loved him.

But words, she knew, could not relieve his pain.

Instead, she watched, giving him silence and time, 

because that’s what he needed.



In a while, she would hug him,

but she wouldn’t say a thing.

Session’s End

One day there is no news.

The anchors stare at empty teleprompters,

Eyes wide and twitching, lips quivering,

they look into the camera.

We change channels.

See black screens or people scrambling on sets,

Passing blank papers and whispering.

We do not hear what they say, and we do not care.

We are too tired to move.

Through the living room windows: trees and sky.

The wind blows and birds fly.

Somewhere snow falls and thunder booms.

But not here. There is no weather.

No drama, conflict, or story.

No wars, crimes, or political crises.

No empty talk. No sound and fury.

In a forest, high on a pine,

a wood thrush sings. 

Deep in a dark-water cave,

the Emperor angelfish knocks.

A judge’s ruling: session’s end. 

Someone shuts a door.