Thoughts on the Death of my Father
(Nappies
aren’t supposed to be for grown-ups.
Grief, not crusts, whips hair into curls.
He does his dying, is gone; still the nurse’s day
drags on.)
What if it had been my mother?
Image by Eduardo Sancinetti
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My grandmother’s hands
In a fading photograph, they sit一双手Newly-wed still. They pause,hovering in a chant of numbers
because my mother’s best friend is catholic
today it seems the missionaries are bound to send their best-disguised recruit – the tickle of hai
seven and serpentine
i’d recline on the green couch
