Phyllida Law is Dying
She turns her face, skin the texture of flour
sifting down into jowls, her eyes
vivid blue like her daughter’s.
She says, “My husband and son died
the same day.” She says,
“I am barely here.”
The plot moves past her.
I touch the screen where just a moment
ago she was. And now is not.
I say, “I am barely here.”
The dandelion gone to seed is more here.
The sound of rain on the roof
ten years ago is more here.
I purse my lips, I breathe.
That breath is more here.
I say: I am barely here.
I purse my lips and blow.
My kiss is for no one.
“Puff,” I say, and go.
Emily Hipchen
pea river journal 
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