Annie MacLean

Posted for St Andrew’s Day
30th November


His Passing

(i.m. H.M. 7.2.26–27.11.12)

I cannot see through infrared.
I missed the bioluminescence …

In a nameless town
in an airless room
my father spat: “Enough!” to life.
I changed the sheets upon his bed
and watched him climb aboard to lie.
He turned his back to face the wall.
So, no more stories of Dark Matter?
He stayed for days with a wasp-like jaw.
I counted every expiration
but I did not note his final words;
I feared igniting his rejection.
My red eyes searched for what they’d missed
through shadows where his ending happened.
Certainly, something seemed to leave
somewhere, in between dimensions.
I let in the deathly, quiet night.
No shimmers shivered in the gloom.
The stillness showed me he had gone.