She Does Not Want Our Pity

Sunk into the couch encumbered

Paraphernalia of death

Mistress of all she surveys

Ruler undisputed

Of this, the Domestic Kingdom.

True to form, sharp as a tack-

Only the carnal cage that fails her.

Thus she does not want our pity.

She bequeaths all her possessions

Offhand, like they hold no meaning-

Not like kohled ancient Egyptians

Hoarding funerary trinkets.

Pretty things no longer needed

Lamps and fabrics, books and drawings

And the earrings bleeding beading

Crafted now by light of sunrise

On thought-wakened mourning mornings.   

Long-time warrior, you’ve awaited this-

Stocked up and hunkered down

Against each illness, waged your war.

Zimmer frame, old age’s trappings

Are at hand now that you need them

Bought on sale twelve years before.

You’ve already made your peace with death

Handed over all the keys

To your estate in metres squared

The hook on which your soul is snared.

When you fade from this space forever

We’ll wrench our broken halves together

Though it’s strange to us, love-living

Verbose, haunted, hurting, giving

To dispense with grief and care.