Conversation
The night he was taken
my father’s fingers danced
like icy spiders:
dab-dab-dab at
his hospital gown.
He talked to his drip
obliged to welcome every drop
to the coven of wild spirits
digging their heels on his skin.
The white sheets
dressed him
with elegant urgency,
trembling robes
for a lord of the gin.
Is this life? I asked
Death, nearby, suggested
answers on a postcard
and dad dictated me many
sat at the tavern of his mind.
I couldn’t keep up.
The ancient matron
cut a smile
when she saw
us holding hands.
She joined in,
holding dad’s heart.
I don’t think often of that night
I fear if I do
all those short-legged words
will burst out of some cocoon
and stick to me
like glue.
Josep Chanzà writes poetry in English and Catalan. He reads his work regularly at The Blind Poet in Edinburgh, where he lives. He keeps a blog (clearlightbulb.tumblr.com ) where he writes the imagined lives of some the city’s inhabitants.