no visitors
here in the pre-grief / english fails me and my latin slides / from my eyes i work a sixty hour / week if
you don't / count the labour of existing of sleep / but i / am untethered / to drip / or machine as i
slide/ other people’s shopping past my hands and tuck / their bags as neatly as i can / professional
bread-and-fruit-protector /that i am. / i thump for eight hours a ten minute ride / from where she lies
and waves / every other day / to my darling father with fresh pyjamas / on the other side of the ward
portal / orpheus lit fluorescent / in the slow moments after sight / and in my off hours / unable to
anything / but tied too tight / to the death drive / of busywork, hidden / from the facetime window
through which we glow / in sight / of one another’s faces / moon lit by sun lit by / atoms smashing
into each other and growing / more atoms while down / here/ i am snatching petals/ from the world’s
worst daisy / she might die / she might not / she might die she might /
when i get paid i’m going to buy enough
green stuff to see me through the winter,
arms laden down with fruit for good breakfasts;
i’m counting down the days til i can fill
the house with roses, like dough divide my
spoils between the strike fund and the garden,
fresh soil, old fights, hot spark of hope for both;
Woozy with the reach of all this power
to feed whichever friend is at the door,
for birthday presents bought months in advance,
and funding taxis for whoever needs:
when i get paid, and float on all these riches,
i’ll walk with you through a shop i’ve never
even worked in, kiss you freely in the aisles.
Murdo Homewood
Murdo Homewood is a poet, early church historian, and worried transsexual living and working in Edinburgh. His work can be found in GUM, Glitter, and in little pdfs he makes for his friends. When not writing about long-dead saints, last night's dinner, or a bird he saw, he can be found unsuccessfully attempting to complete a cryptic crossword.