Room 301 Poem by Bernard Henrie

I suppose it’s natural
that you died,
your girlish mouth closed.
If I see your arms
in fifty years time
I will recognize
the curve of ulnar nerve
at your elbow, closed fist
like a distance runner.

Someone will come soon,
your mother, someone.
The nurse applies
your plum lipstick
and matte powder.
I push away the steel
morphine stand.

In fifty years
I will remember
your head in a turban,
girl’s breast cut away
months ago,
the telegraph of spine
sending illness to your body.

Your skin transcendent,
like looking at koi who swim
dumb and translucent.

In fifty years time
I will recognize
your rolled underpants
in a blue drawer,
the catheter discretely
out of sight, sheets barely
indented with your body.

I dress you in a white blouse
and red scarf.

I stop crying like a schoolboy
and think of something
to say when others arrive.

Pat your cheeks
against the cold
as we ride down
to the hospital's
hidden morgue
in the basement.