A thin line connects
before and after.
Refugees carry talismans,
miracle cures.
Dark nights, bright light,
ill-advised death jokes
told by the hospital gowned relapse
Tired,
always tired.
You said you weren’t an if
but a when
yet you’d outwitted Stage IV.
After a year puking
things looked pretty good.
You had even stopped checking,
although you knew
how could you not know
seams had weakened,
bled wide open?
Did you ignore shadows of pain
traced on the walls?
Past and present can’t hold you,
time hollowed-out, hollow eyed
tunnel grey.
The sky is a fucking tempest of rage
I forget the names of colourful birds.
Where should I live?
should I pause,
build a boat
unthink,
discard
find something to do with my hands?
What I want is to drive in a convertible
with you and Grace Kelly,
silk scarves over our heads, sunglasses
beaming into the blue.
I’ll plant flowers named after you,
won’t blame them if they don’t grow.
When things are calm,
I’ll call a truce
to let this day pass when it must,
let the wind sweep through
all the rooms in the house,
leaving open space
and nothing more.
