I expected glazed windows.
Deep fog through windscreen glass.
It was a troubling thing to do.
They weren’t completely closed
but even if they had been
I’d have done the same
in those hours just after –
that terminal silence
when clocks still go
and the medicine trolley rattles
its mad monologue down the corridor
but in this room, nothing
but the dead-bird body
of my mother
I think I did it to make sure.
No. I knew.
But the one unbroken line was between our eyes –
when everything else had snapped
one look – tiny isolated spark –
still jumped a connection,
Was it still there?
With one finger, gently,
I pulled each eyelid up.
There they were –
blue still, clear, fluid.
Were they empty?
No. They held the look of someone
leaning back into the body of a mountain
from The Lock-Picker, Palewell Press (to be published February 2021)