Dorothy Fulford during her 90th birthday party.



2 blue hs:

her hospital is
a knot in the arteries
of highways and main
roads dividing the
psyche into concrete
and asphalt
high rises like prods
like horizon nodes
like unimaginative
with nothing inside

so beloved’s slick
lotioned hands stroke
mum’s two cool feet and
slender of legs
so soothing she
whispers out and
smiles the smile of
life before
then mouth folds back
down to slack
black hole
tongue a little
animal sleeping in
a cave

matriarch stops breathing
the passage stuck but lungs
still pumping but
no air and then
finally loosening
the blocked throat
and blurting out
old air in a suck huff
blur of i’m still
alive sound and
in turn we start to
breathe again too



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