Heading Home
When she finally closed the curtain, even though transparent,
Sensations of dusky satin, gravitational pull bearing down,
Flattening disbelief, burgeoning spread of gleaming poison,
Sucked the wind from my lungs that I might drown.
The grim finality of something alive, vital signs all fine,
Suddenly pronounced deceased, slabbed and impotent;
No chance to say farewell, no graveside chat,
No: where do you want the flowers sent?
And knowing she had to do it, or herself stagnate,
Heading nowhere, treading water indefinitely,
Doesn't really help; knowing it was a mercy killing,
Doesn't ease the slaughtered heart, the agonised epitome.
Then in the car, tears came, and I pretended it was rain,
The reason why I could not see teemed unadulterated;
Now nothing will ever be the same, so once more I pretended
I was heading home to something, although nothing there awaited.
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