Touchdown

The pale killer, Embalms eternal youth, Preserved in memoirs and snapshots, Concealing the killer in a ‘Gap’ cap. Brevity was a constant friend, The excavation of courage, Living days on slow motion, Welcoming with a child’s smile the end. How does one define grief? The thickness in a salt throat? A room left the way it was, Preserving denial for tainted hopes? I know only this, He told me not too grieve, But I cup my hands across my womb, Where once he was mine and only mine, And smell the corners of his duvet in his room, Smiling at a photo, That captured him brilliantly, ‘Touchdown’ For Robert North.