Post Mortem... Not Sure, I Think The Point Is Unclear Poem by John Tansey

But for the tick tock
Of a wall clock
Dripping like a faucet,
My room is drab, dark and quiet;
Almost death-like
As the decrepit crypt in which I was raised;
My mother, the mournful coroner.
With a monk’s vow of silence,
Remaining mute,
I tip toe into the stillness.

But there is a familiarity in the air;
The aroma of toilet water and moth flakes
Wormholing time to so many years ago
When I would visit my Oma;
Old and blind,
She would sit still
In her living room, high back chair,
Knitting perfect afghans with a passion
As if sewing the very pieces
Of my family back together.

As the past comes crossing the border
Into the present,
We embody the same existential void.
As she steps into my being
I slip into hers;
A little boy seeing with her blindness
the dead, that reaches out to me.
In a sudden paralysis,
afraid of deaths immanence,
I extend my hand into the darkness;
And, as Adam, touching the finger of God
on the ceiling of the Sistine chapel,

I feel her hand and find reassurance
amidst her presence!