A Multitude of Sins

[penguin]

Revised version

I cannot handle dead bodies since
I had to shave that lifeless face
and scrape off sins like blades of glass,
like chalk on a board, as if death squeaked
through rotten teeth and hollow cheeks.

Talking is easier.
Do you remember the plant
in the top-floor lounge
that we both so heartily hated?
I never did find out its name.
For me it was merely ugly; for you
those large waxy leaves were its ears,
leaning in closer to steal your secrets,
absorbing smoke and speech.

I sit beside it now.
The old place is closed down, supplanted
by Home Treatment, Star Workers
and voluntary organisations.
The staff were left to rehabilitate
unwanted items of furniture:
my wife took a shine to a table, chairs
and this antiquated listening device.

I sit beside it now and hear you praise
Around the World in Eighty Days,
hand me your heavily annotated copy –
and I the reluctant will’s beneficiary
hearing tell how your father died too early,
how wicked and unworthy you were,
how little you desired or deserved to live;
your refusal to take yes for an answer.

Like a priest inside a confessional
I asked you to itemise your sins,
just so I could tick them off a list:
schoolboy misdemeanours
of tuppenny ha’penny pettiness –
not the stuff of formal therapies.
Hardly hanging offences, I stated,
you must be a saint or simply
don’t get out very much.

Now I see how the brown leather belt
we bought together, that you haggled over
with the market trader, is wrapped around
the bathroom door handle and cuts
your neck purple; the angle
of your shoulders, veins bulging,
eyes popping, pleading and waiting
for five or six days on life support, waiting
for consensus to gather and grow
as thick and long as your beard.

Original

I cannot handle dead bodies since
I had to shave that lifeless face
and scrape off sins like blades of glass,
like chalk on a board, as if death squeaked
through rotten teeth and hollow cheeks.

Talking is easier.
Do you remember the plant
in the top-floor lounge
that we both so heartily hated?
I never did find out its name.
For me it was merely ugly; for you
those large waxy leaves were its ears,
leaning in closer to steal your secrets,
absorbing smoke and speech.

I sit beside it now.
The old place is closed down, supplanted
by Home Treatment, Star Workers
and Voluntary Organisations.
The staff were left to rehabilitate
unwanted items of furniture:
my wife took a shine to a table, chairs
and this antiquated listening device.

I sit beside it now as your tales disturb me -
how your father died too early,
how wicked and unworthy you were,
how little you desired or deserved to live;
your refusal to take yes for an answer.

Like a priest inside a confessional
I asked you to itemise your sins,
so I could tick them off a list:
schoolboy misdemeanours
of tuppenny ha’penny pettiness –
not the stuff of formal therapies!
Hardly hanging offences, I stated,
you must be a saint
or simply don’t get out very much -
waiting for the laughed response.
Waiting…

Now I see how the brown leather belt
we bought together, that you haggled over
with the market trader, is wrapped around
the bathroom door handle
and cuts your neck purple, the angle
of your purple shoulders, veins bulging
purple, eyes popping purple
for five or six days on life support;
pleading for an end to purple, waiting
for consensus to gather and grow
as thick and long as your beard.