Pillow-huddled, curled toward her own imaginings,
The bones held loose in panting flesh,
She lay upon the self-breathing bed,
almost as if, they rose and fell as one.
This bed of life could rise and fall,
With one sure touch, with pure and practical intention,
Prepared as it was, to hold lightly
The shrivelled soul that sought sanctuary.
Sounds of breath and sounds of bed,
Drew patterned hopes in steady weaving
And eyelids closed in weary fall
Upon the days, the dreams, and visitors.
How many years had drifted past
Upon this stark white cushioning?
No answer, for she had none, and neither did she know
If she lay upon reward, or punishment.
If truth be known, and it rarely is,
The answer must embrace both offerings,
For in the suffering lay peace,
And in the sanctuary, brewed torment.
But such things had all become as one
Through years of curled imaginings,
And now she simply lay and breathed …
In what was life’s last offering.