Blow

Room scattered with the things
that every days are made of
rotting food from days ago
stale curls of crisps
her body is a centrepiece
its skin iced, diced, puffed
the blood needles
high five her sleep
she was sold down a river
for a damp crumpled fiver
first scar to the breast
the breath of Patsy Cline goading
now a paramedic shouts
dishes out adrenaline, a silent prayer
this minister of life
he knew this woman, this ache long ago
a gone, sad distanced sister
now here, in this shrinking world
slapping awake, carrying her
around this darkened room
he can see her as a child
the smiles, scratched pop songs
a birthday dress
flecked with fish paste
he locates a breath, a pulse
a shared rhythm
the paramedic is no longer alone
his sister begins to blow