Missing (A Quintina)
It's nowhere near the end, but a miniature Death,
erasing by increments, chipping at your mind.
You're patronised, even by these words. 'He's not all there,'
as if you're deaf as well. I repeat my name again.
I wonder which of us, if any, you are missing?
But it's all been going slightly missing
like a jigaw of ninety-eight pieces. Did Death
forget to call, or call repeatedly, stealing to gain
a little more each time? Do you mind
that you'll never go back there?
That you'll never go back there.
I repeat the words; I don't want you missing
my point, the same way you're losing your mind
to the fog. Is that the only cure, then? Death?
Repeat myself over and over again:
I'm not sure what's the point, what's to gain.
Is this doing you any good? 'It's in their
best interests,' the doctor said. He's deaf
to any second opinions. What he's missing
is perspective, but I couldn't say he'd really mind
one way or the other. So, if you don't mind
we'll try a different tack, lose or gain.
The one thing that never slips: you're missing
her, it doesn't matter that she's not there
and she succumbed long ago to Death.
Let's pretend her Death was all just in the mind
as if you and she are there, together once again
and neither of you is missing.
