Poems by Elizabeth Kirkby-McLeod
page 8 of Tarot #1
No sun gets in this gloomy room, festering
ceiling mould blending with summer fly spots
couch no longer comfortable, used countless times
for children’s huts (like this) she’s committed
to leaving it out despite condensing space.
She crawls in, cocoons where armrest touches back
listens to the rain, curious why her mind’s solar powered:
substandard without sunshine.
Progress — Then Pause
page 41 of Tarot #1
i.m. Bain Carmichael
I watch my grandfather dying
like my baby being born,
the rasping gasp of his breath
against my aunt’s demonstration:
like this dad, deep in, deep out,
they would tell me when
breath turned to scream,
like this now, deep in, deep out.
Progress – then pause.
The bedside vigil hours grow.
Chips of ice, water on a sponge,
small physical talisman
offered from this side.
Days late and I walk
one foot in the gutter,
one foot on the path;
an illusion that I can make
all things come to pass.