Her Name is Anne.
Her Name is Anne.
The clock ticks so slowly
Mimicking the sound of the raindrops tapping gently on the window settled neatly into the greyness of the day
Tick tock, drip drop
Walls still damp from the grief once pounded into them by wailing mothers
begin to close in
Pushing down with purpose, they land on my chest, where they sit
stubbornly refusing to leave
Ghosts of the past emerge from the dust
Empty arms stretch out to my frozen frame
I do not have what they yearn for
And still they refuse withdraw
My hands cradle my ears
Huddled now into a foetus
A faltering sound escapes my dry lips
The weight of guilt keeps me bound
No escape from the contorted faces now
I see a child from the corner of my eye
She is alone and crying
My heart beats for her
A shadow looms over the tiny frame
Adorned in the cloth of god
Fingers clenched around the thick leather of her belt
She reigns down with full conviction
Years of pent up anger, unleashed in the name of her god
The little girl desperately attempts to disappear while raising her arms to protect her delicate skin from the blows
Others around her fall silent, in the hope of not being seen
They know their time will come again
Please Lord, not today
Their silent plea
I do not see in full colour
I see only in grey
She kneels in prayer
Bleeding into the floor
Shaven head, bowed
Sad eyes, closed
Her fate sealed
Behind the cold walls
Unseen
Unloved
Forgotten by the outside world
She remains a shadow
Unnamed until today
Two generations after her death
They are pulling down the walls
And putting statues in their place
I still can’t see her face
She is scared
This poor child, desperately in need
Of warm embrace
Hides from the light
Her name is Anne
Her name is Mary
Her name is Brenda
Her name is Annie
Her name is…
Clare Kinnaird, 2024.
In memory of my mother, grandmother, aunties and uncles. All of whom were raised or incarcerated into the Irish Institutions for much of their lives. Not forgetting all the others forced to endure the cruelty of these places.
