"The shrouds are piling up in cardboard boxes
by the bathroom door
They’re the only hospital linen
that isn’t washed after use
Like everything else these days
they come in plastic,
ready to meet death like factory-baked goods,
wrapped and straight to the void
You wonder who makes the shrouds
what cold machine sews and packs them
ready to cover any of the bodies that lie in the morgue
For my shroud I’d like my mother’s hands, to die before her
and to lie once more in her womb,
to be a little girl again and have no idea
that in hospital laundries
death piles up in cardboard boxes
next to the toilets."
"The shrouds are piling up in cardboard boxes
by the bathroom door
They’re the only hospital linen
that isn’t washed after use
Like everything else these days
they come in plastic,
ready to meet death like factory-baked goods,
wrapped and straight to the void
You wonder who makes the shrouds
what cold machine sews and packs them
ready to cover any of the bodies that lie in the morgue
For my shroud I’d like my mother’s hands, to die before her
and to lie once more in her womb,
to be a little girl again and have no idea
that in hospital laundries
death piles up in cardboard boxes
next to the toilets."