She’s manoeuvred by bluster and bonhomie;
each chair like the last, each bed like the next
but none are quite right, none are home.
Home’s a sensation more than a place,
located just beyond her memory,
but she knows this isn’t it. It rests deep,
deep beneath the skin that rips like foxed
and faded paper with the most diffident
of moves; deep in the pores of fragile bones;
in the space where she makes long distance calls
to a time as sharp as the greenstick fractured
tibia from falling off her brother’s bike.
She’s misplaced the now, looking in with milky eyes.
No one should live so long, no one should die so slow.
Copyright © Georgi Gill, 2014
Georgi Gill lives in East Lothian and works at the Scottish Poetry Library. Her poems have been published in Far Off Places and the Inky Fingers blog.