That Kind Of Smell Sticks
I always remember the smell of his skin:
It was the smell of sick, the smell of public hospitals, the smell of panic.
I use to bring him tea, as if that would cure the cancer.
The tea was always prepared the same:
three sugars, black, Five Roses.
In the end, he lay chemo-coiled in bed –
even the springs in the mattress heated up.
He bent and became a child again:
a child whose alcoholic father lost his shoes in the playground;
a child whose father had such a temper, his steam rose high;
a child who needed to comb his hair perfectly to the right.
In the end, the lumps gathered like pebbles
below the base of his spine.
I know he keeps putting my cigarettes out.
He used to say, "Never smoke below the blue line."
Light Over Darkness
I can feel the dark lumps underneath her chin;
I often run my hand over them.
She gags and gestures to be let out,
she wants to vomit on the lawn – her body is rejecting a chicken neck bone.
She goes into the dark, away from the kitchen light,
the shadow of bats circling and cutting
into her swollen body on the lit grass.
She goes further into the dark of the garden, to the side,
as all dogs eventually do before they die;
they go out of sight, alone
so their smell does not attract unseen predators, which are
dangerous for the pack (our family).
All the while, white fireworks pop softly on November twelve;
Diwali lights roll across the night sky
and beneath the sky, sparklers
light the ground, silently.