Posted in Love

Death Row

It’s probable we had seen her before
but people look different in uniform
and even more out of ….
no one had the presence of mind to ask her name.
She approached us at the funeral
afterwards, outside the church
in that no man’s land between service and cemetery
no longer present, but not quite gone.

She had been one of the nurses –
she said
“your grandmother took a long time to die
endured much discomfort and pain
as did those who tended her and witnessed it.”
She told us –
one day it was too much
she broke into tears sobbing, “you shouldn’t have to suffer like this.”
Grandma took her hand
placed it between both of her own
and said
“it is better that I have this than a small child.”





Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.