(i.m. Shirley Beckwith) This is the south faceMoss-quiet and chilled stone. Here no sun's slothful coat Or darts of amorous warmth, Only long shadows on cold ground. She visits every day: brings The small things: flowers, fruit. A new bed-jacket, her own Covers the shoulders that hide the wound, The fertile dancing cells in the throat. Sarcoma: such a beautiful word she thinks One day, trying to be detached, At least from the night-drenched pillow Wetter than the dying sister's, who fretful Puts her affairs in order; a dying As ordered as her life. The sister dies one morning early, In the dark on a bier of morphine. She retreats, locks doors, endures A season of grief. Blast magazine, 1988 |
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