I am the child with the face lit up -
I am each arm cupped around her, grinning
From beyond vast corridors,
And plump women
Who gather on dark mornings
Stiff with the smell of lilies, perhaps.

I am the child with the small black hat,
I am suddenly pale and I am flat; uncertain,
Steering through the rabble of bodies and curtains,
The burnt-oak coffin, and the stems that collapse
When I stroke them,
And reach out to mother still

Just ask me how it feels.

© Deborah Gordon 2009