somewhat dead

 

cold light through a hospice window

pale curtains stirring
too worn to billow

my hands on the coverlet
pale and wracked

 

my hands holding other hands
trembling unspoken volumes

Is it me in this bed
soon to be replaced
with something combustible?

Is it me sitting over there
holding my hand in mine?

 

I can't remember
I cannot care

 

beyond the slow flow of pain killer
viscous tears
against the searing knowledge

 

I'm trapped in stone
yet eroding away
by the steady drip drip drip

 

relieved and received
by winter day light





Poetry by Katarina Wikholm
Read 588 times
Written on 2012-11-23 at 13:13

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
This is very nice, Katrina. It's a beautiful poem, but stark and quiet as its subject.
2012-11-25


Åsa Andersson
Beautiful. Keep on writing - I am looking forward to your first collection.
2012-11-23


josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
I can only echo Fog's comments. Stunning in its perception and language. Brilliant work!
2012-11-23


countryfog
Between the stunning first and last images a scene too many of us likely relate to as we looked on, wondering what our loved one was thinking, feeling, not quite knowing what we were to think or feel ourselves. You've told us in a way that has more empathy and understanding than anything I can recall.
2012-11-23