It was surprisingly easy
sitting beside the bed
looking at you lying there

I'd never till then
seen a person
so absolutely still

no rhythmic motion
no rise and fall
no twitch or throb

just a few dry twigs
beneath the duvet
tracing a question-mark

so faintly outlined
so utterly weightless
so slightly there

******************

only your death-pinched face
with its alien, emperor profile
showed above the bedclothes

******************

you bitterly mourned your house and cat
you hated the (suspiciously staffed) home
but you were spoiled, nursed and warm

you had proudly inhabited ninety-three years
there were no lingering religious delusions
almost no-one was left behind to miss

you were all but blind, incontinent,
bewilderingly deaf, prolapsed, cancerous,
with only memories of India to relish

******************

you slipped away in a morphine cloud
utterly oblivious for five numb days
while I watched your breathing falter

and your body lurch in quasi sleep
your right hand fitfully gripping the left
making your bed seem a cradle

******************

so why the brittle question-mark?

******************

'you' were gone, with nothing wanting now -
except, perhaps, an answer to the question
I didn't know existed till after you died

******************

why did my husband take those pills
to kill himself half a century ago
leaving me a blighted life?

******************

you told us it was a heart-attack
now I know both question and answer:
gambling debts, affair and depression

but an answer is not an explanation
forty-six years ago you bottled that vinegar
till it soured and spoiled your heart

so was it the explanation you dreaded
that your desiccated body finally begged
with its farewell question-mark?

or was it a more immediate need to know
if there was love in my heart as I sat there?
I may never be able to give us an answer