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.