Bath towel wings

Embracing herself in bath-towel wings,
corners clutched with tight, pink fists,
she waits for pyjamas in the centre of the room,
warmly dripping what is left of the bath.
I don’t want to die, she says, and if I could waive
death somehow, waive it like a day of school.
If I could write her a note or simply wrestle it,
the way I contort her into armholes.
I tell her that I love her but she’s heard it before.
She wants to know where we go after this.
She believes in Santa. I can’t let her trust Jesus.
Yes, your heart stops working and your lungs.
I want to tell her that life gets busier
which means there is less time to worry.
If there is a trick it is not to grieve too much.
The mystery must be lived, hope is important
and fear: I get the two mixed up.  But the end is coming
without permission, whether I spell it exactly or not
and these wings, this warmth, whatever we enact,
will never come to pass without love.

 

© Nathan Curnow
Bath towel wings is published in Nathan Curnow’s first collection of poetry, No Other Life But This (Five Islands Press)