In a Care Home, where my auntie’s dying,
the carpet’s red and orange, colours warm.
I have to be so careful – what I say,
the way I glance – or auntie, desperate, swoops
like a hawk ‘Why look like that?’, ‘Take
that smirk off your face!’ and, trapped by my gills
in falsehood, censure, fault; memory drops, blood pounds
and I get it, why, her tiny room is warm.
…a small cough runs from a door edged in light,
muffled talk turns to singing,
and then into whispers; Shhh,, Shhh, alright,
and a sudden ask - ‘How you feeling?’
of toys laid neatly on the bedroom floor.
They always answer ‘Fine!’
till he shouts loudly (in case you missed it earlier)
‘Good Night everybody – yes, yes, goodnight!’…
They poke and pick and prod in little battles.
They turn a key to get inside a house.
They twist a corkscrew into many bottles,
scratch an itching, you might never notice
several digits quietly make a difference
by signing cheques – and, sometimes, saving lives
- silent pirates, smugglers, warm, tenacious,
turn a button, link the other cuff.
They squeeze the scissors tight, join palms on Sunday,
feel the skin of people that you love,
open books, unclenching at the last page
and build up castles - so we all survive!
Without them we’d be disconnected,
they cup an ear so ‘oddballs’ can be heard:
wave, or clap, or point at, disregarded,
reach out for others others disregard.
