Not Yet – New Poem (1st Draft)

I am writing a series of poems about the passing of my Granddad.  Writing about the loss of him helps me to come to terms with it and deal with the emotions that come included in the package of grief.

Not Yet

Making toast and scraping the butter

from the packet has suddenly

become impossible. All I want to do

is mash some tea, wash the pots from last night,

but before I know it, the ambulance is back,

and I’m not allowed to put on my shoes.

Carried out of my house, wearing socks,

I can’t see the stars or the moon.

 

My ears are full with my laboured breathing,

and this slight cover feels like it weighs

a hundred, thousand tons.

 

I can see two of my grandchildren

through a milky haze.

There’s the one I haven’t seen

for a couple of years,

the one who sounds like her mother

when she answers the phone.

She’s holding my hand but I can’t hold hers back.

 

I don’t want to go, not like this,

not days before my 73rd birthday.

I want to cradle my wreaked gall bladder,

nurse it back to health,

bathe this fragile body in honey.

But my heart is still so strong,

I want to talk, goddammit!

 

I’m angry, please, someone quickly re-wire me,

give me a new body. This one wants to go,

but I’m not ready, I’m not ready.

 

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