Sunday, May 5, 2013
I've Only Got One Line Left
They want to push a camera down my mother's throat,
see what's growing, find some way to justify their role.
But it doesn't work. The oesophageal canal has thickened,
the tiny wire scratches sides: she is only millimetres from death.
This will be the end then. My sister sits with her and waits.
I walk to the shops; buy some milk; talk to my son.
Now, however long it takes, we adopt the inner shape of vigil.
I see her father pushing his baker's cart; waiting for his trains to come.
Old metal wheels make a broken song when they turn.
I've only got one line left, and it's running out...
2 May 2013