Hospice
written by: Jim Bellamy
I do not think I was switched at the hospice
As an instinct. No,
There my bed went on
In endless tramelling down and
On into the Mind. So
I cannot say my bed was worth it. No,
I must reveal that I
Was altogether caught in transits
Of some long luminary phase. Where
The bed moved, I grasped a flower
And locked it to me. Like some spread
Saint of petals, I was lost
In true volition, like a bough. Then,
The matron spoke, said words
That could not be heard in the ear, like
‘Suffrage,’ ‘Marvel’ and ‘Sphere.’ So, I
Met my bed full on, made signs
Of snickers and snippets at one with me;
Rode and styled my sheets into
An open fire, and lay
Full naked on the flames, alone
With reading lamp and stony book, steamed
To the riled corpus of my bone, spread
Like a monkey cruise…
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
A keen response to Philip Larkin’s great poem ‘hospital visits’
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