Category: Poetry

Bloodless skin too tightly drawn for lips. 
White. Like supermarket chicken. 
A row of teeth along the bottom curve. 
None along the top. (You lost those long ago.)
And that moustache that grandmas get
And tickle when you kiss.

It’s four. 
Trying to remember that last conversation for company. 
Except we didn’t know it was going to be the last conversation. 
Not then.  The detail’s faded. 
And without that to cling on to we’re drowning. 
A black hole.
Pulling everything 

In and out

All this framed from your broken boxer’s nose to your chin
By The Mask of Sorrow (you liked that film, the one starring Douglas Fairbanks. Or was it Tyrone Powers?)
Held in place by a loop of lawn green elastic. Stretched. 
But not yet snapped. 

Out and in

To breaking point. What does a fractured skull look like? I’d take a picture with my phone and send you. 
The police officers standing at the head of your bed have. For “evidential purposes.” 
One in uniform. The other in plain clothes.  A detective. Made them feel sick. My italics. My mother. 
Smash all the mirrors. 
They have no use anymore. 
Let’s have some bloody dignity here. Yes bloody. 

In and out.

Contusion
That’s the word the doctor uses. That and depressed fractures of the orbit. Dr Murray. David. I like his trainers. Why do I notice them when he’s telling me your eyeball has dropped into the place where your cheek bone used to be?
Look up from the Nikes. 
Neanderthal. Yes that’s the look. And with the head bandage a touch of Mother Teresa. 
Confusion. 

And out

“You can talk to her. She can probably hear you.”

“Pick a fight with someone your own size next time Mum.” 
As bright as the fluorescents.
The nurse gives me a strange look. Pity or disdain. She knows what I’m thinking. I think. 
And I’d like to have her. 

In 

That was a performance. Privacy now. Blue curtains drawn. Neat pleats. You’d like them. Voices on the other side. 
On this side whispers. Through the orange neck brace to your blood-flaked ear. 
The roar of the ocean inside a seashell. 
Cromer beach. Drowning out the beeps. Can you hear it?
I want to cry. Like the last time I saw you crying. When dad died. 
But I can’t. Him telling me to be strong. 
So I tell you that you are loved and list your children and grandchildren one by one. Eight names. Living. Breathing. Without your spark none of this.
None of us. 

And out

Let me hold your hand. 
It’s warm under the giant bubble wrap blanket. 
Dying this way is a numbers game. 
I’m an expert at this now.
I’ve been here four hours. 
A screen. About the size of that telly you won from the competition on the back of the Kellogs Cornflakes box. But in colour 
Top row. Green.  Waves. Listen with mother. The shipping forecast. 
Tyne, Fisher, Dogger, Heart Rate. 105. falling slowly. 

In

Second row. Yellow. 100%. 
Gold star. Tollington School for Girls, East Finchley. Top of the class. 
Except the oxygen machine is doing your work now. Cheat. 
And there’s a picture with your exam results. 
An X-ray showing your lungs are half full of fluid. Or half empty.  Whichever way you look at it. 

And out

Bottom right hand corner. Smallest font. Two numbers. In red. Blood pressure. 
Shannon, Sole, Systolic, Diastolic 
45 millibars falling more slowly. 

And in

Numbers. 
You were breathing too quickly when they brought you in by ambulance 
Morphine 
Now we’re counting the seconds between the breaths. 
It’s up to four. 
We’re in Italy. (That holiday you wrote about in the diary we’ve just found. The first family holiday after dad died).
We’re on the quayside. 
There’s a gentle breeze off the land. Scented. Filling the sails of the night fishing boats. 
Such small boats. 
Such a huge ocean. 
Slip the mooring. 

And out

We watch until she’s safely over the horizon.

Poetry as therapy. This is a work in progress, still raw. It’s been thoughtfully and lightly edited by my poetry coach, Pele Cox, and her fellow poet Sally Read. Between them they have offered invaluable support and knocked off some of the rougher edges. I am indebted to them for this and I have no doubt we will do more work on it together in due course. But for now I thought it important to post the piece while the events that prompted it are still fresh.

Many of you already know the circumstances and have very kindly reached out to offer your support. But for those who don’t, it’s about my 88-year-old mother, Sheila, who in early October was beaten by another resident in her care home and died from her injuries in hospital a few hours later.

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