Afterwards
My mother’s last days
were the end of a winter
that had become only
rolling blackout into blackout—
a time I had no hold on.
All news held a kind of dread
but ours, when it came,
felt like coming to.
A dimness in an old room,
a sense of certain things in absence.
Two sisters agreeing under the apple tree that the gathered speed
with which everything was being
done was just plain wrong.
poem: Will Burns
music: Hannah Peel