when you died, you didn’t die

a car crashed through your living room wall.

through the wall of the living

room you were in
you were in your rose garden

chair, eating smoking answering

questions from sunday’s

rag. when you died mum told me to come 
told me to come quickly. i was busy

getting inked – a portrait of pj harvey, i asked

if you were picking at air yet?

i asked if you were ready to go. 
if you were ready to go

you rattle-spoke-slurred

an answer and a question:

‘how do i die?’ ‘how do I die?’
‘how do i die?’

were the words, you spoke

‘i can no longer find home on a map’

geography forgetting spells the end for some. 
the end for some is in your rose garden

chair – eating smoking answering.

the room is silent, you could hear a bone crumble

you are as thin as i wanted to be in high school 
in high school, i made my bed

in the gaps between your ribs

between breaths. in the gasp

between birthday parties 
birthday parties have a shallow fall: ‘how are you?,

how do you do?,

i think we met years ago’ and so

on until we all die. 
until we all die, the nurse says

it won’t be long now, is this white light

heaven or morphine? is there a difference in

asking for death from a poem? 
death from a poem, or from

a car crashing through you?

will you go more humbly if this fits

neatly on a page?