On my tongue, there’s sand.
Dusk
Tide’s in, it’s a clump of wet sand.
And my feet –
They are freezing, there’s water swashed over them.
It’s raining, only fine rain, and my hand is lying, detached,
flopped out in front of me.
And then it jumps up and scuttles over me, no warning.
It smells sweaty – but that could be the sewage – and clings
onto my face, and I have to rip it off.
Mary clutches onto the hand.
Fingers all wriggling about.
She holds it up to the light.
Mary looks at her wrist: a stump.
Then Mary looks back to her hand.
She draws the two together – like a spacecraft docking.
The parts click into place.
There’s a buzz of electricity.
Mary is frazzled with the energy, with the pain.
Then she stands.
Mary sways.
Mary holds steady.
She takes a step forward.
Pauses.
Then another.
Electricity buzzing through her.
Pushing her up and –
Mary’s floating.
Up in the air.
Across beaches, across grassy fields, down the A259, above
SUVs and autocars, past the roundabout, third left, straight on,
hard right.
Someone shouts Mary’s name.
It’s soft, from offstage.
Mary’s still floating – down a country lane, swerving to avoid
the cars.
And again.
Turn off and follow signs to the hospital.
And again.
Fog descends.
She follows its light –
The shout, again – firmer this time.
But the hospital, a halo, burning –
Mary.
Louder.
She looks down at her hand, it’s translucent.
Wind rushing past her head.
Above the hospital now, and dropping down.
Mary’s going to smash into the roof, crumble onto concrete,
closer –
But she passes through, a ghost, and her body drifts, through the
fifth floor, fourth floor, third, second, first,
and keeps dropping down through –
Ms Malek.
Into the ground –
Ms Malek
Into the –
MARY.
Flashing my eyes open.
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