My grand-pa is dying.                                                        
His soul is unpicking itself from its seams.                    
You can hear it flapping                                                     
at night when he breathes;                                                 
fluttering against his sternum, creaking and                          
groaning like a caged wind.                                                                                                                        

My nana licks her fingers to smooth it back down.     
We all know this won’t work
but she tries all the same.                
Death has thinned her out too and needled her skin
but in spite of herself, 
she slides through his grasp.                                                                                                                                

Grand-pa’s ankles are white
and thickened like milk sauce;                                                  
a heavy translucency
anchoring his body
to the bed. A humourless
irony; this will not
help prevent the light from
licking its way up and
gathering like a wild                                
cape around his shoulders.                            


What a thrill to be lodged in dying like a doorstop;              
held for a moment between two spaces,                            


before that last, catastrophic, gust of wind