As the competition anthology is now out (To Make Us Real), I can publish this poem here. It was commended in the Winchester poetry prize. As you will see, it’s another from the series about my mum. I hope you like it (if that is the right word!):
the two mercies
The first, borne in on the great bright shadowless air
which suddenly yawns around you, horizon to horizon,
lies in having travelled so far beyond your limits
that noise and nerves have dropped away.
You find yourself navigating the tasks tirelessly—
stripping the bed, finding the will and the phone numbers—
moving with a sort of giant’s stride as from crag
to crag, a quintessence of pulse, saved
by the entireness of your vulnerability.
There is nothing left to fight or feel for;
and this strange unassailability is the first mercy.
The second comes much later when,
down from extremis’ high altitude, you’re stumbling
through residual days, stubbing toes
on memories, ambushed by reminders and regrets,
skewered by longing and yet saved, this time,
by the pain itself—for severance
witnesses connection, affirms that you have been
part of the great human project; and then you remember
that these twin mercies, the feeling and the not-
feeling, are but one cell, divided, and that
the name of them both is love.
I hope it speaks to you. That’s all I ever want to do.