I make coffee.
Sit with her. Say
nothing.

The sun hits St Faith's
on the back. The
weather vane spins.

I'm told she
has a belly
scarred like a
used-up paddock.

Her bowel is not
as functionally equipped
as it was - pieces
have been removed
and she doesn't know
what's gone what's left
how long's she got
until it packs up
and won't deliver.

She growls sneezes
often laughs or
cries into the mask
of her emaciation.

The steam
on the lake turns
like a large white hand.

She meets it at the gate
pokes out her tongue
then rolls her eyes.

Fuck it! You're early
she calls First
let me get my coat.