Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

He struggles, floored, sweat-soaked while dogs dream the night
away and cats prowl, eyes green spotlights fixing small animals
that skitter in fright, and cows remain placid and a warm breeze
riffles grass. She arrives, senses his panic, somehow knowing he
had left their bed. She uses common sense words but with a
breathless catch to her voice, soothes his fear, fumbles the tablet
from its silver cell, balances water as he writhes. He has not had
time to empty his bladder. She brings blanket and pillow, sees
sweat patch his T-shirt, trickle down his temple, notes details for
the questioning time later. She wraps something warm around
her shivers then empties her own bladder fast, the door ajar,
listening for any cry. She checks the time and traces over what
they ate and drank, what they did, then considers possible effects
of general issues and events so she will be ready when he
analyses this, his old foe, when he is strong and rational, when
he seems in control. He realizes he has cried out like a frightened
child, remembers as though another person had cried out and he
had been a witness. She asks his advice in case she has forgotten
anything. She wants to nurse him but feels useless nursing the
sick. Her confidence lies in other fields but she cares. This caring
is what is important. He smells carpet dust, feels safer on the
floor, concentrates so hard on his struggle the walls and roof
could collapse and he would not see. Only when he knows he is
safe again, recovering, does he relax. He is not going to die this
time. She sprawls, leaning against the wall, fights off sleep’s
inevitable pull, her own fear.