Jane Rusbridge
On the last day of September
the toast he’d made for her
because she asked him to
on Wednesday, still lay
on a flowered side-plate
covered with cling-film, because
they told him she could not
swallow - even though
the crusts were cut off,
the slices thin
and lightly buttered,
because she liked them
that way - and because,
having brought them back home
from the hospital, no one
wanted to watch
the small
triangles slide
into the bin,
where the green beans
he and she
had been stringing only
a few days ago,
lay brown amongst
broken eggshells.
Page(s) 53
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