Thursday, 19 May 2011


I was combing and shaping my hair
when she began to die - making my vain
arrangements for the day - and from that
moment of her violent pain there were
no more words or looks, and whatever
had been said would have to do, forever.
Having travelled all those miles to
hold her hand and to say goodbye
this was the most domestic of ends;
I did not see her turning from life
but only my face in the misted mirror
and what I could hear of the others' cries.
There were more days before I was bereft;
more days for me to groom before I left.

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