18.02.1997 – 08.06.2008
Her skull was a map of inroad scars
For doctors; their colonial quest
To graft that precious, mottled globe.
Tufts of hair would sometimes sprout –
Downy grass to shroud, to pall
That site of neurologic digs,–
Her body stored means of revolt.
Blithe and buoyant I never saw
Those cruel crab-pincers killing her.
Eleven, and still peeling fresh
From life its glossy cellophane,
‘Terminal’ was three syllables
Of a word I’d not collected yet.
Off-air, on frail hiatus days,
Words were her IV escape.
Now I dose likewise for her sake.