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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: February 21, 2016

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Submitted: February 21, 2016



I remember Clive
making love to me
back in 1939;
we were both naked,
and he lay between
my thighs,
and I had my legs
around his body,
holding him there,
sensing him deep
within me.

Now I am lying on
a hospital bed,
my sightless eyes
peering into darkness,
my leg stumps
being dried by a nurse,
after the blanket bath.

My stumps are painful;
her hands dry me softly,
the towel rubbing me drier.

How are you today, Grace?
she asks,
her voice to my right,

In pain,
I say,
not wanting to pretend
anything anymore,
not to say what
I am not.

The drugs will help you,
she says,
but not all pain
will go just yet.

As she touches my stumps,
I think of Clive,
him touching me,
his body firm,
his voice in
my ears,

Now he is dead,
killed at Dunkirk;
no more to make
love to me,
even if he would
want to now.

There are other voices
on the hospital ward;
there is music
from the radio,
dance music,
some big band playing,
some singer
singing about love.

That's you dry
and bandaged,
the nurse says,
now to dress you again
in your fresh nightie.

I sense her place
the nightie over my head,
and I help her
the best I can,
putting my arms
through the holes,
and she pulls it
down my body
and I am covered up
warm and cosy.

I lie here on
the bed,
but with nowhere
to go.

The nurse has gone;
I am in the darkness,
thinking of Clive,
wishing he was here,
wishing him alive.

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