Liminality

When my mobile rang I was surprised to see

your name on the screen. Time hung

like a curved moon as, in just three rings

or four perhaps, a spool of flickered frames

flung remnants of memories round my brain.

Those small steps, tense on your frosted path

and no less braced as I climbed the slow creak

of your shadowed stairs, smelled the hush of sickness

that led me to your room where I found you,

bed-bound and cat-strewn, retching on morsels

and brooking your mother’s fuss.

Yet months later there you stood,

sassy and glorious, sparks fizzing in your eyes

as you sashayed down the corridor

in that reckless orange frock.

How I wanted to touch you, feel the cotton floss

of your queer hair and kiss you slippery shades of pink.

Jangled by your ringing tone I felt the clang

of your sentence toll within the dome of me.

‘Hello,' you said, as if you were ringing

to chat about your holiday in Provence.

But I already knew your treatment had been stopped.