After the Stroke

After the Stroke: I

Her eyes scan

the room

like a waking child

surprised

by the morning.

The shapes of words

form on her lips

but

fall away

unspoken.

Like snowflakes,

caught

in my hand

and brought

to my mouth.

Like bread from the altar.

They tingle my tongue

with

the forgotten

fizz

of sherbert.

As I speak her words for her.

With her.

After the Stroke: II

When you popped round

I had prepared

a pile of prints,

a fan of photos

spread

between my chair

and hers.

You’ve been busy,

you said,

in the day since she died,

and built a mosaic of memories.

A monument? Yes.

But not a wall,

I said,

but a bridge.

After the Stroke: III

Five weeks on, I faced

the perfume of the wardrobe

and cleared her clothes

from my room.