moment you hear it slip
from the doctor's mouth —
that medical journey
with foreboding survivors,
you turn from words
to silence, put your back
to the wind, unpack the clock arms.
you throw your hands round life's
cohesion, the oil spills in its bag.
you taste the acid metal of the rain.
night is a lid grieving
on light. stalks of shadows
sprout from pages
that once stilled your goldmines,
the eucalyptus leaves rust
to gold in the dew.
youth comes running to you
like broken toys. you binge on
silence, crease your fingers
to mimic the dimming stars.
you say nothing when in fact
you talk loud, & your silence
stretches above the gale.
dreaming of home, i used
to think of isawuru
the luscious greens & gleams
that warmed your heart to me;
the way your smiles played
to your cheeks, soaked to bones,
when we mocked the nightingales,
& lifted the flowers in the air.
i wonder if those days now mean
anything to you, mother, as you
nurture the ache in your throat,
the tests & tumour life, the prognosis
where the doctor left his goodbye note.