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— VĂ­ctor Rodríguez Núñez

Lorna Thorpe, from A Ghost in my House


Even the most hard-bitten are heard whispering
that angels, stars, a god they don't believe in
or the ghost of my father watched over me that day.
Others put it down to luck —
the broken romance mended days before,
heat forcing you indoors to hear my fall,
lightening arrival of the paramedics,
the latest CPR technique, on trial from California.
I like to think they came to me in that brief interlude —
Nana, Paul, Dad, Jane — and, speaking a tongue
only the dead can hear, nudged me back. Still,
it's fantastic, that heart-stopping interval,
one minute more and my oxygen-starved brain
would have given up the ghost. So fantastic
I can't quite believe it, although I can't sleep,
afraid that every night might be my last
and I blink back tears when my consultant tells me:
You're a miracle of medicine. You shouldn't really be here,
you have to make the most of every minute, every day.