DEATH Poem: Life of the Party, by Mark Thomas

I heard a meow
and, without thinking,
reached down
to scratch a set of ears.

But my cat wasn’t there.
I’d had her euthanized
a month ago. The ghost noise
was something
inside my damaged brain.

Still, I flexed my fingers
and searched for the rubbery
patch of skin between two ears.

Then I heard a frightening noise,
as my arm fell from
the shoulder socket,
and thumped to the ground.

I immediately sat up,
and stared at the strange object
on the floor.
My fingers were white and curled
like a sea creature.
The upper limb
wobbled briefly on parquet tiles,
then, as I watched,
my ex-arm turned into a pile of
ash and bone chips.

I stared at the empty pajama sleeve,
at bits of dust spilling from the cuff,
and tried to apologise
for making a mess of things.

But I was alone,
unable to cry, and
didn’t dare go back to sleep.