By Kieran Moriarty

My mum and Jimmy Noonan 
talked quietly about it while my brother
and I wandered the CD section
in the Irish goods shop
after our tin whistle lesson —
Jimmy taught in the dim back room
where you couldn’t hear the front-door
open if someone was playing,
where we’d watch the bones
in his hand flutter while he played.

The news radio on the ride home
spoke about how the shuttle
broke apart - between long pauses,
he said the seven names, and talked 
about their dream and how close
they were to home.

At dinner my mother and father 
let the television stay on the news,
and again and again I saw it,
a comet coming apart like a thrown 
snow ball when the snow won’t stick

No one stopped me going
outside in the cold and walking 
in circles around the cul-de-sac,
searching the ground for burnt
parts, scouring the darkening evening
for something falling or burning.