Tuesday, April 1, 2014
The bird-claw in the bed is my mother,
curled hopelessly as her papery skin
comes apart, her oesophagus closes,
the growth in her bile duct acts secretly.
What grit is it, at her core, she clings to?
How is it possible this coiled rump stays?
If she were conscious of her state, could act
with agency, she would choose to die now.
But she learned stubbornness early. Somehow
her frightened heart found a way to endure.
And bitterness, it seems, clenches its jaw -
in its shrinking away from life defies
the gods to come and tear the organs out.
Poor crumpled wretch, your ending will be hard.
28 March 2014