Silent Thumping

Every month they come in with flowers,

cooing and fawning at Popo for hours,

as if she’s some kind of baby.

Look how inky black her hair is,

how healthy your Popo is!

I am jealous of her hair, Uncle says,

his own speckled with silver,

a bittersweet contrast

to the life that clings to her.

I went to see your Popo, Mother says,

her voice gently strained with a sigh.

She was thumping her chest, 

demanding to die.

Does she know Gong-gong is gone?

Half her body, as good as vegetable,

she lays in her room, 

walls white, ceilings white,

the colour of stillness.

Eyes cloudy, ears muffled,

waking each day

just to sleep again.

What brings her to this?

Fists pounding against her chest,

tearing at the feeding tube,

flinging the lines that tether her

to the beeps, the bed, the walls,

to her stubborn, fragile existence.

I wonder if she knows,

if she’s trapped in her mind,

dreaming of Gong-gong’s embrace, so kind,

longing for the day she will sleep,

not to wake again.