Admissions To The Aged Admitted,

Her past creeps into the room

And drives from a mouth that wants to stay closed:

 ‘Do you know who…’ lips break, the voice slows

And stops. Her grin is cracked, as silent as a tomb.

Just as closed snares flick with miniature death throes,

Her hollow eyes twitch with half recognition,

As the memory hangs, kicks like feet suspended from gallows,

Her pitch black bitumen pupils deny its admission.

Blank pages in her diary tell a thousand stories

Of all that is forgotten, a time that grows and grows,

As if we stand upon opposing banks, I mouth my impatient pleas,

Your mouth stuffed with lotus fruit, while between us the present flows,

So I pass outside, exhumed, dusting off this play with death,

Forgetting my question, admitting nothing to myself.

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