That Last Weekend

I remember watching the Pope
on a balcony, doing an impression
of Sooty: and thinking, that despite
the intoning commentator
that it was not a dignified death.

We arrive at the ward as visiting closes
and loiter around: half expecting;
perhaps hoping to be turned away.
What lies beyond the curtain breeds fear.

He is happy to see me, his twisted
face and toothless grin, combine
with his newly chemo’d hair
to give him the air of a parrot.
Harsh but fair. He loves animals.

The last attack, the one which should
have killed him, has whithered his legs
to skeletal reminders of Japanese cruelty;
and like the Pope, I am reminded of
glove puppets: no strings attached.

I am too emotional to deal with
my cousin and my aunt, who chatter
at us, as if this were a wedding.
I bury myself in newsprint; read twice.

I have consoled myself in many ways.
I am thankful for the peace
that allows me to bury my father:
though my counselling sessions hint
at the war in which he buried me.

And then we are alone. My mother,
and my girlfriend, go to find tea
and company, and with them goes
my daughter: secure in the belly
that keeps her from his arms.

For nearly forty years we have
swung from silence to anger and
onto indifference. Now I make
small talk. The tumour on his brain
prevents his reply.

I talk of village gossip, but
mainly I talk of my daughter.
I see by his face that he approves.
I burble and flow like a bore
encouraged…

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