Me, holding your hand
Eyup, June, d'you remember Big Tessie
slouched on my Mam's dressing table?
Her porcelain fingers all shiny and fat?
And her eyeholes? Remember
those black eyeholes?
No, the eyes were in a tin in the kitchen cupboard.
Button tin. Silver Jubilee biscuits.
Mam kept them there after you pushed them out.
Tessie's eyes — storm-grey and large
like ours — kept safe all these years in a biscuit tin.
God, she scared me that doll but, even eyeless,
she had something.
June? June, d'you know your eyes are open?
Slouched by the mirror she was,
like Siamese twins in those antique
medical freak books my Dad picked up.
God she was cold, and her lips?
— it seemed odd, to me,
how you could see her front teeth.
I know they've ripped your mouth, June,
to get that tube in. There's blood
on your lips,
drying round words,
round white plastic.
Remember her face? White with fat,
rosy cheeks, rosy lips?
If I kissed you, (like I want to, daren't),
what I'd taste is me in you.
I can't think what you can taste,
except maybe painkillers, blood.
Remember her fingers? China like her face
shiny and fat. Creamy.
No nail varnish. Nails clean.
When they brought you in
was there scum under your finger nails
from mopping up your own sick?
I think of stroking your fingers,
holding your hand, but if I do
(like I want to, daren't), I know
I'll knock the needle out.
June, can you hear me?
I've brought you a book. Paddington Bear.
There's dried blood everywhere,
on the sheets, your face, under your nails.
I want to clean it up but I don't know how.
They tell us it's bad. I want to put your fingers
in my mouth, make your blood warm, clean.
I should wipe that spit off your chin
before they give you more adrenaline.
— Afterwards, Mam remembers the bloating,
the steroids. Me? I saw what the adrenaline did.
Remember that rag doll we tipped
up to say Maa-ma and laugh?
Tessie wasn't that kind of doll.
They've already tipped you up once, June,
shifted the whole bed
to keep your heart from stopping.
— we got sent out the ward.
And when your heart stops again that's that.
None of this drama; no beeps; no Bach:
just silent monitors and pulling out cables;
just all of us crying and me
holding your hand June, thinking how cold it is.
Published in Entering the Tapestry, Enitharmon, 2003