These images cut and cradled,
From points of the past,
Betray the grace of
Underneath each photograph the poet
The beautiful people who took his breath away.
Black and white,
Sometimes in colour,
His messy hand makes the words hard to read.
There is something so intimate about penmanship,
The things you can see in a dash
You couldn’t hear in a conversation.
Is dead now.
These are his marks,
His etchings into existence.
How vast and poetic your words become when you are dead.
The echo of present tense:
As if mumbled in sleep.
Your words are never valid when you are alive.
– Porridge: A Memoir
A memoir about life after death, and a little girl who nearly lost her life after her father lost his.