Poetry

Afternoon Nap

The closest you can get to death is this:
star shaped and on your back,
your bedroom livid in its curtained light,
contained by dreams in which you can’t wake up.

Your decorative clock has stopped,
your house is auctioned by maternal aunts.
There is no distance like the one that grows
between your bed and windowpane.

Far off, a dog will try to wake the terraces.
Somebody starts the engine of your car.
Let them: you’re sleepwalking

through wayward trees, your left hand
lightly holds the fingers of whoever
you loved longest, last.

Helen Mort