| Years later he comes back, climbs
into my bed with his clothes on.
He's heavier but I'd know him
anywhere. Getting in carefully,
dressed in a suit I don't remember
and a pair of shiny shoes,
he never speaks, just strokes
my hair back until it lies flat;
while I sleep on my side
all night, in my usual position
facing the wall, my left arm dead
and no chance of the feeling returning
until he slips out at first light,
leaving me to find myself
lying here with my arms flung back
as if I'd been taken by surprise.
Talking to a Dead Man
Look at her now. Laid low
in the doctor's hands.
Your widow is on her back
for him, is naked
but for the dressing gown.
Watch
how slowly he's urging her,
pressing her flesh
till she moans.
In her garden
the night-scented stock
still grows. Your favourite flower.
Treasure
You may as well have left me
mewling in a phone box
or on the hospital steps
with your wedding photo
cutting-the-cake,
these flowered tea sets
wrapped in newspaper.
Mammy's Treasure.
Daddy's Pigeon Pie.
|
