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Renaming of Parts
In 1976 Mr G performed an operation
called legal, on a fourteen year old. The termination
was renamed delivery, and the aborted foetus
became a prem baby after it persisted in breathing.
The theatre nurse turned unwilling midwife
was unable to leave it parcelled and gasping
so it became Jason the 26 weeker in special care.
Now the fourteen year old who had been a routine
gynae case requiring only a day off school
was renamed mum for a week, until Jason realised
that his mode of arrival and four hours in the sluice
hadn't exactly improved his identity
so he stopped breathing and became a neonatal
death.
His mum turned back into a schoolgirl
and the event became a line of her medical history.
Years later, when Mr G was eventually struck off
he renamed himself a journalist.
Stroke
Earthed lightening,
random, deep inside his skull;
the sound of hours; this change
he cannot name.
Half of his face
still smiles, and words
rear up translucent, tipped
with white spray of consonants
but will not, will not
break on the shore of speech.
Sometimes, not one syllable
patterns his furious calm,
though he scans flat horizons
for perfect lisping wave
for dip and unison of oars.
He rehearses; breath, throat
lips, like a swimmer, awkward
in unfamiliar style, desiring
that single, fluid movement:
It will not come.
Only one unformed word
lashes his mind, a coiled
rope of sound naming him,
naming this -
and this: the nurses' quick
caressing hands, their wanted
elsewhere eyes that see
only a line of pen or brush
at the close of biography
unfinished,
ended.
from 'Diverting the Sea' published by The Rialto
(click on the "ventures"
link)
Waiting Room
I have passed through the door
Shuts automatically Do not force
into a space that waits for all of us.
Someone leaves, in a worry of children,
lateness, prescription painkillers,
to the runway of outside.
We watch, we cannot go
yet. The door opens, shuts, fills in
awkwardness of chairs between us.
I have handed over my name
for a number, a boarding pass,
carry too much luggage: unease
like a probing hand, sharp pains
when I swallow what it is
you will not say.
When my number's red and calling
I shall journey your white lit corridor
as if on a narrow path in high wind,
to the terminus of your white door.
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