Paul Archer - photo Paul Archer - poet, translator




Celia kept a smart house, even when living alone,
was always carefully turned out, fastidious and
fair-skinned, make-up done, each jewel stone
in her brooch brilliance itself. When she'd stand
over her stick in the butcher's queue, calm
and quiet, not looking curiously around, you loved
her for it, her voice like the silver in her palm
shone, each word a silver coin tipping from a gloved
hand like a blesssing. You admired her for holding
together what could come apart, the will she'd shown
to battle on, never feeling done down by the unfolding
ritual of passing on, never fearing the unknown
in the world to come but in this one our empty pity,
never fearing the disease's pain but the loss of dignity.


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