August night, air condition off no electricity, dying in my
own “sweat,” a word I wasn’t going to use again. A sudden
gush of hot air makes the curtain move, in a surprised way
like an English castle ghost caught unaware in the armoury.
The gush is full of crematorium ashes, cling to my face
won’t come off; I’m tired have no strength, when I finally
get to the bathroom, my face is clean, ash has gone through
my skin followed the blood stream to my heart and brain.
I know share my body with someone else; a soul that didn’t
want to leave, but demanded more time. There have been
subtle changes I have a hankering for tea, no milk and two
lumps of sugar, I leave the loo lid down and keep bathroom
clean. The feminine side of me keeps my coarse ego at bay;
I do not sweat anymore but transpire.