Near
We always know when somebody has died
in other bays. The Ward 9 Sister comes
and draws the curtains, just the ones beside
the entrance to our room. I hear the hums
of mattress pumps throughout this quiet time,
a pigeon landing on the little ledge
outside my window, adding to the grime
of other birds. It lingers on the edge
as we begin to hear the porters walk,
the trolley rattle down the corridor;
it flies away. A bird of prey – a hawk? –
is circling overhead; I watch it soar
instead of glimpsing, once again, the bag,
the black bag on the trolley. Covid's here.
Last night I dreamed my name was on the tag;
I cough again. The hawk cries out. It's near.
Felicity Teague
