The door clicks a jar
compresses the draught
to a whistle that wakes me
from your arms, her arms, my brother’s
hand I held through a summer
night in the respiratory ward
down the corridor from coronary care
where he would be the next summer
and no one could visit
while he dreamt of life and dying
surviving dreams of dreaming
and not divining what was remembered
or dreamt even when sent home
to live as best he might when so tired
of medication and interventions
when all he wanted was to live
and love and still be the man
she married.
~
CLP 20/01/2021