DYING FOR THE FLESH

by Lindsay Preston

Cracks in his drooping face deepen -

unlike his lover's scent on the coverlet

He locks the bedroom door

Son and grandson well beyond the wall

call him to the tea cup

but his aching frame is already filled

with emptiness

No room for even the pill

that prolongs the pulse;

the gut-churn is the voice of his need

to close

He pulls out the top drawer, chooses

satin blouse, bra, pants, panties -

bloomers they called them in his day

flushing him red once at the clothesline

when the crotch flapped in his face

He pads anxiously to the bed

Turns the pillow and her absence vertical

Garbs them with her garments

Finding her wig in the corner of the closet

he fits it - with its styrofoam head -

unto the pillow's shoulders

He turns out the light

Centred high between the drapes,

the gibbous moon sheds a cloud

whitens his lover's silhouette

Lying with her rushes his heartbeat

Her fragrance

floating

him

feather-light

he kisses her ghost

dying for the flesh

to which the ghost belongs