as she laid there violently still.
Her soft Irish skin spread like putty
to the mattress,
her speechless mouth hung open,
and her eyes,
like fish eyes- glossy, unfocused, bulging.
How I prayed to hear words
from her, there, living lips
as if to pull out some meaning.
I remember the day
she told me this might happen.
How naive I was about her bruised
and wheezing body.
And when asked a month before,
if the chance of her dying might come,
Any questions? Anything to say?
I just stared at the evening
stroking tall buildings outside.
How much I'd change that,
the closed mouth, the young mind.
What I might ask of her now-
all the things I'd love to know.
Alexandra Ustach
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