STAGES OF DYING (after Elisabeth Kubler-Ross)
Tim Metcalf
Denial
we cut textbook lines
into the dull clay of our body.
We shook dismembered hands,
and bragged of cricket with arms and balls
for a joke.
We washed the formalin from our hands
for the next two days.
Shock
A pregnant girl collapsed.
The scalpel cut quick and deep.
Her grey belly peeled apart.
The monitors ticked:
a mechanical requiem.
White gloves pulled out the baby
cold and dead like the streets
I wandered half that night.
The scalpel cut quick and deep.
Her grey belly peeled apart.
The monitors ticked:
a mechanical requiem.
White gloves pulled out the baby
cold and dead like the streets
I wandered half that night.
Guilt
I was anxious, and obedient.
To cure at all costs
was the boss’ creed.
I had no time for the old woman
we made betray her faith.
Soon after the transfusion
she died of cancer.
Anger
hit this woman with his car.
Her young breasts quivered
each time we thumped her chest.
Over half an hour
her face, burned alive,
set cold, branding for life
the mind of her child.
Sorrow
Was it happy, his final memory?
This poor bloke, purple-faced
and next in line for death?
I was naive, yesterday,
regarding his broken heart.
Today it wouldn’t go anymore.
Tonight I was drunk.
There were tears, briefly.
Acceptance
I went to see an elder on his beach up north.
He didn’t say much.
There was this sky-blue dreaming;
the ocean its lucent mirror,
flawless like an egg.
I heard he died around sunset.
That night a warm breeze blew
the soothing tune of the sea
He didn’t say much.
There was this sky-blue dreaming;
the ocean its lucent mirror,
flawless like an egg.
I heard he died around sunset.
That night a warm breeze blew
the soothing tune of the sea
Posted with the kind permission of Dr Tim Metcalf. You can read more of Dr Metcalf's work at http://www.softblow.com/timmetcalf.html

