Late Afternoon
To please me, my son tries on this coat
out of the wardrobe dark after five long
years. It rests awkwardly on unfamiliar
shoulders and I imagine he's feeling the
weight, deciding if this is gift or burden.
Adopting the body builder's stance he
tests length of sleeve, strength of seam.
The stitches hold. He grins. Something
of dad's. As he strides to his car from
a distance it could well be you, absurdly
alive, always with so much to do, places
to be. Energy is still in the winter air as I
lean on my gate until the light has gone.
What you tried to tell me
Your breath fogging up the mask,
skin stretched over cheek bones,
what you tried to say I did not know.
I could only play games, run through
the alphabet, guess words as we did
in the car with small children, those
ridiculous pleasures of long ago.
But this was quite different. You
wanted, needed something and I
couldn't crack the code. Grabbing
my hand you drew a line on your
chest, moving on to make the sign
of the cross. Or so it seemed.
Priest! You want a priest? I said,
puzzled yet pleased to read your mind.
You rolled your eyes, looked up to
the ceiling, slowly shook your head.
I never learned what you tried to say
as we reached out to each other,
and words deserted us.
One day
Not tired, not lazy
wanting no more
than the warmth
of familiar flesh
a closeness nobody
else can give.
A sign on their door
siesta: do not disturb.
All that's needed
is in this room.
Late afternoon
a struggle to remain
awake; they cling
one to the other
as if to stay
the moment
Reflections
For forty years I saw myself through John's eyes ...
Joan Didion, 'The Year of Magical Thinking'
I too saw myself through a lover's eyes.
To him I was the girl of fifty summers ago
although he, my mirror, at times reflected
a woman I did not want to recognize or
even be. This December morning I bend
to a mirror to face what five years exactly
have written on my skin. As I speak
to him of grief, its persistence,
my breath on glass blurs my image
and that appears to be as it will be.
Thoughts of death in a bookshop
So many titles bearing this word
and I recall that we seldom spoke
of death, passing on, ceasing to be.
Believers no more we kept God
at arm's length. You were in ICU
when a poet offered to pray for us,
speak in tongues. Then a cascade
of syllables falling over each other
like excited children wanting to be
heard, if not understood.
Your colleague brought a rosary
blessed by Pope John Paul only
months before he died. Closing
my palms on crystal beads,
chains of silver, Brian pressed
marks into my skin.
His gift I put away in a drawer.
The top one.
This the best
I could do.
Lorraine McGuigan has been published in Quadrant, Island, Southerly, Cimarron Review, North American Review, Antipodes and Psychopoetica. Since 1995 she has been managing editor of Monash University's Poetry Monash. Her first poetry collection What the Body Remembers was runner-up in the Anne Elder Award.