who else am I
that I do not spend every waking hour of every day here
with my words and the melodies they play?

that I know is all it takes
and thus the future
the me inside
is freed.

and I went from the table to my son's bed. Laid myself next to him and gazed at his strength whilst he slept. and then just breifly I saw my own unravelling. If he were to die? his grandmother's eyes turned blank and grey upward beneath chalk white lids and her aged body shook and trembled on a precipice called death. She rturned to us , to help us fade that memory? Then why did it linger with me and let my imagination touch it to my my son's sweet grace. I do not know.

capacious love,
not quite extinct
but tired , so tired

endlessly waiting to give itself
and it couod be you,

just ask.

chill
creaks at my shoulders
hardening rocks either side of my throat
my poor, sore throat.

and I am laughing at my weakness.

chill creeeping
along, longing lines
towrds my elbows
rested here
beside warm breasts

and I am close to weeping

children sleep
in beds, on floors and sofas
sparked around my house
and I am covering, worrying, loving

so afterall, who is mocking me?
only me?
lonely me?

and afterall, who is mocking me?

freeze and peel my skin
suffer the silent din
prepare to take control
contradict me.

and I am waiting to die?