Prognosis

The Prognosis

At two in the afternoon,
in a white-washed clinic,
the oncologist asked for a private word with the wife.

“The prognosis is not good,” he said kindly.
He had the right tone of voice that came from
the repetition of a single phrase over the lifetime of a profession.
The wife went outside and discussed
the train schedule with her dead husband.

On the way home,
the council flats sped past them and
the bridge came and went.

Autumn leaves flew off the tracks and settled down again.
She told him they had dinner waiting. There were fish fingers in the oven.
The husband, knowing, smiled. And said, next summer, they would go to Greece.
-Ramya Chamali Jirasinghe

A poem which goes into the crux of the feelings....

This poem was shortlisted for Gratiaen Prize this year.