Saying Our Goodbyes

The ward sister points us to your single room.
It seems that you’re asleep as we come in

but when Dad leans across and says your name
your eyes open and there you are, thinner now,

a fragile patch of chest above the gown,
your bicep hanging like a loop of dough

but you – almost happy and lost for words.
You look forward to getting home. You don’t know

if Michael has already been. Dad holds your wrist
and strokes your hair. And when it’s time to go

although I never knew you well, I take your hand
and kiss your brow and whisper that I’ll see you soon.

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Les Fotos

The photo albums pass from hand to hand
over paella smudgings on the tablecloth.
Your parents, as fallera and fallero, stand
in the warm sfumato of the analog.
Your mother’s beauty hangs like white blossom.
Your father’s bull-black jacket and curls
frame his lover’s pride and film star’s cheekbones.
Then the next with its Disney cover. I turn

the title page and there you are, aged three,
your parents’ miniature, watching the brass band
in your fallera dress. Smaller, rounded cheeks,
surrounded by unknown faces on unknown ground
but you – so unmistakeably – my heart tightens
and I have an image of me lifting a daughter into sunlight.