Loss Prods

Three women all stricken with cancer,

wiped aside by sickness,

their bones bitten and tormented,

coffins crafted out of wood.

I search for hope hidden

in one of those Where’s Wally? books

vandalised in the waiting room,

sitting in a sullen silence

praying that they could’ve lived,

the news close to unintelligible when broken

spoken to underwater ears barely sheltered from the rain.

Ashamed when relieved that it wasn’t me.

Spirits on my shoulders, I walk them out to the sea,

reflected under the bleeding sun, the sky switched to red,

the goodbye slow, all eulogies read,

the sun sickening, pale by the time I drag myself to bed.

I glide gradually through hospital hallways,

labyrinthian, winding, supposedly sanitised spaces,

then wake up short of breath, cold hands

held to my heaving chest in the dark,

monsters unseen but certainly still present.

Outside a dog barks, and a daunting hint of tomorrow shines between the blinds.

I look for you, afraid of what I’ll find,

we sealed the door off for a reason

but the wood is worn, paint torn and decayed,

we’d sealed that door off

for a reason.

Beloved bodies

slipping through my fingers

which press hard against my pounding head

when loss prods, heavy,

new mornings never pregnant with promise

but in labour with despair.

Wishing it was me instead, despite

the fear,

sick to my stomach seeing my face move in the mirror,

it’s a slow quick death,

it’s the scythe forever moving near,

closing in faster when you ignore its approach,

blink and you’ll miss it

as it moves between the trees.