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published
in Scintilla 9,
2005, ISBN 0-9530674-8-3
Talking Cure
Sometimes I feel very
small.
I’m
lying on the carpet of the world.
My
back is pressed into the earth.
Giant
poppies are growing overhead.
I
know you understand.
You
always wait so patiently,
ready
for me, in the early morning,
when
I’m polishing the green corridor.
The
nurse sleeps behind the counter.
Then,
you and I, we can talk.
Your
hand’s like a bird’s skeleton.
Mine’s
etched with brown lines,
dried-up
rivers in the sand,
pink
half-moons in my fingernails.
You
always squeeze my hand,
to
let me know you can hear me.
The
nurse says you’ll die soon.
What
does she know?
She
thinks life is a bird,
trapped
inside your rib-cage,
fighting
all the time to be let out.
I
don’t think so.
It’s
like water being poured
slowly
back into the earth.
I
touch the folds of your face,
ridges
of sand on a wind-blown beach.
I
think powder will come off in my hands.
It
doesn’t, but I see the places
where
my fingers pressed,
though
I touched you very gently.
I
stroke your hair,
the
endless surf on the coast of Africa.
I
put your hand in my beard.
You
curl your fingers in there.
I
wonder what you think of my skin.
And
I tell you,
I
don’t know why I left my home,
and
came to this country.
Yesterday
the nurse came.
She
told me to go away,
that
you were more awake.
Your
relatives are coming,
though
I’ve never seen them.
You
won’t want to know me any more.
But
I’ve crept in here, just for a moment
and
I see that you are crying.
You
lift your eyelids.
This
is the first time I have ever seen your eyes.
They
are two small blue worlds.
You
say, as you smile at me,
and
stroke the hairs on my wrist,
“Sometimes,
I felt very small,
I
was lying on the carpet of the world,
my
back was pressed into the earth.
I’d
look up and see the sun’s face.”
Victoria Pugh
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