I took out the photographs from the drawer,
and laid us on the bed.
I had kept them pressed like wild flowers,
and now I sought a key
in each of these paper blooms,
to unlock the lexicon of you.
But instead I was crushed
by their single dimension.
All your things stare at me….
Your shoes,
sit,
by the door,
like a tired old dog.
You were never tidy but now
your leavings cut me
like little knives,
and I am mugged
by your memory.
Today I unzipped your hospital case,
took out your blue striped pyjamas and let
my fingers find the cuff and fray.
Unmended…..
Promised…..
Just touching them is just touching you,
in the hospital bed,
stubbled, grey
and oh so cold.
Now I want to be difficult.
My life has been made less ordinary by your death,
and even in your death you continue to define me.
I can feel your boney grasp upon the chain
that binds me to you,
and if I submit,
you will surely drag me to the grave
with all the other widows,
offering mindless
sympathy.