for Judy Packer
For me, 50 lurks below the tree line

like a Zeppelin of bloated liver

while for you it is
an endless mirrored distance, this echo

fishtailing away down the ward

as the graveyard shift
groan on about their night,

the mercury ripple

followed by the fruity rasp
of another cough beginning

and I think of how

we’ve both attempted stopping
to take our separate poisons,

I lasted a week

and couldn’t bear
the unending concrete desert,

after a few days you

“Exploded at the Checkout Chick,

kicked walls, a car’s mudguard, shins,”

the way we both

snuggle up to weakness.