Jane Blaikie
Kathy’s public service job breaks up, refloats
with longer hours. She works
into the night, into the early morning. At
home, the mechanics of Dave’s
illness, its rosters and machines, its
chemistry of jar and tube,
fall into splintered
time. The towels hang
colour- coded, for
Dave’s face, his body, the
hands of visitors. A space
grows that is and will not be Dave