It has been a year...
since Abi died. And I know how much she would have mocked me for writing a poem about her, to which my reply is tough, I shall write as many damn poems about her as I choose.
Here's the first one, another bloody sonnet.
MAY IST 2009
They broke her door and found her two days dead,
Perhaps a few hours less. Her hairless head
Lolled on two pillows, upright in the chair
where she was dozing, layer upon layer
of rugs to keep her warm. Her blood ran thin
from drugs and chemo. She had never been
So tired. Her heart had stuttered, guttered, died.
A can of beer, an ashtray by her side
Yeats book-marked with her bus pass; spine-cracked Joyce
her dog-eared favourite books. I miss her voice
drunkenly phoning late; how she would stab
her cigarette to point a joke, and grab
at life, a life she knew is no good friend
to bitter, lovely women in the end.