Beans on Toast

I wrote this a few weeks ago when on holiday. It's inspired by what I read about Harvey Cushing.

I wanted to tell you,
to hear about it all
but i couldn't.
Not when the cancer was still there
threatening to kill us all;
one false move
and we'd be gone.

When you died
the brain still flowed with blood,
still played tricks on our eyes
veins veiling lumps of death.
It needed me:
I was there
with my clamps, ready.

In the summer,
when the light faded
and I dreamt my body
was a riverstone,
passed over by a current, unstoppable -
Then I would send you away
with the children
and I would
eat little more than beans on toast,
and feed on the silence.