Grim.

The Inherited

Generations have died before they've had a chance
to tell me how I'll go. One sudden death after another
they keep giving up the ghost but not leaving one behind
to let me know. How do I prepare? Perhaps they do not know,
I hear you say, perhaps you'll go like they did: in the morning
unable to sit up for fear of fading consciousness, pooling blood;
in hospital, a pink swab mopping saliva from the sunken parts
of face where dentures go; eight weeks from diagnosis.
I could carry round whole heaps of hows to stop it, but slings
and plasters will never be enough. Every pain I have could be
my mum's ghost pointing at where things will loosen first,
every limp and yawn a last hurrah, a sign of things to come.
My oblivious heart is tapping out the truth on my love-torn ribs:
b-bum, b-bum, b-bum—I think hear correctly: all is well yet, all is well.