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Thursday 18 October 2012

Mercedes Webb-Pullman


after the hard work of that night
all the laboured hours
slowed to match her slow
harsh respiration
its rhythm almost lulling
unsure if she struggled to breathe
or to stop – as the sun rose
the sound softened
then both were over,  her life
and her death, already
in the past – one hand lifted
in warding off
or welcome

equinox moon

surrounded by a green
diffusion of darkness
heavy as threat
she watches; silver
eye patch
or weathered balloon,
her wrinkled
mercury skin a map
tracking song lines
on my mother’s dead face

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