Grace In the moments of his leaving himself his hands shook and could not take mine. Instead he stared and handed through the silence the slightest cup of my chin rolled my cheeks between his fingers like dough, and in those seconds he still needed me, and it was a blessing as complete as bread. Inside the night-time minutes he held me with this gaze until the slender tap of knuckle at his throat wound back and down. I touched my palms in prayer to stay the longer held in that stare as the trimmed nail of his tongue lay still, and settled clasped into its last-grasp.
This poem won the Yeovil International Literary Prize for Poetry 2013.
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