Life Backwards
The ash over the carpark of Dean Row chapel
funnels into the chimney of the furnace
and solders onto my body.
The vicar opens the rouge curtains,
two feet tall with a white tassel.
I arrive through the wall on a steel tray,
like a sausage roll fresh from the oven.
My mahogany box is carried to the hearse
which reverses through the village.
A pair of men in black suits remove the nails
with their magnetic hammers
and my body gets warmer, until I wake up in Mac
hospital having food extracted through a tube.
I take my first breath, open my eyes
and see a robin take off from the oak outside.
Someone rolls me to Bramhall Manor in a chair
and at the nurses’ station they tell me,
every thirty minutes, not to worry,
your son Darren will be arriving yesterday.
Tomorrow my son tells me, I will see you
soon, it's okay, you’re in the best place.
Please don’t leave me here—
After breakfast rounds of red and blue pills
I stand and face the mirror,
I flap the wrinkles on my neck,
and touch the veins protruding through my hands.
A tear comes up from the floor, to my cheek.
Later that year, in spring, Claudia arrives
from her furnace in her blue cardigan.
We sit under the parasol in the garden
narrating the movements of the birch.
Claudia laughs,
I tell her I’m going for a run,
as I return her zimmer frame,
sit beside her and drink camomile tea
in glasses with prints of sunscreen.