Nodding in silence

There was a simple way
to say it,
As I sat in her front room, or,
no, we weren’t, we
were sat around the dining table,
eating salmon, her on
my right, her husband
on my left, him
calm, restraining his jumpiness,
his cake-lined authority, his accumulation
of inchoate shame,
and she, so bright, so
chirpy and yet, so much the
air of the magpie around her hair and eyes,
and the brightness, the sharpness
of her tone,
and me, close to the double-glazing, not
the latest type but
slightly out-of-date,
requiring industrious cleaning
between the panes,
but what’s the pains in cleanliness,
especially with the gains in
mother-in-law’s noticing,
and being quoted in
her complimenting by
him on my left,
approving,
like a shaft of the setting
sun through somnolent
clouds;
yes, there was a simple way to say
it, like,
thank you for the salmon and the cruet
and the tub of coleslaw, but
when I’m here with you
I can’t somehow muster the
desire to slice the vein
in my upturned wrist,
because, you see, I feel
like I’m dying,
when I’m here with you,
sister, when I’m here
with you,
I feel already
like I’m dying.

Silently, agreeing to her chant,
I think of some way to show
my weakness that will give me the weight
and the power to avoid her next Tuesday
invitation to sit beside
the double-glazing
pretending not to notice
the dying, each day
bigger – slice-size bigger – and sharply
pointed like the icicle exploring
down from the roof, marbled like a
smoker’s lung,
of the cavern
of my heart.