A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Fragility: you look
every one of your ninety-three years
lying here in this hospital bed,
this temporary holder of your body,
with your legs contracted in pain.
Ischaemic toes.


Your accent sounds Russian. You
describe it as ex-USSR.
You say White Russian
and, despite my knowledge of history,
I am distracted by thoughts of vodka
with kahlua and milk.


And yet, you fought for Stalin.
But who would I be to judge?
I was not there.  I cannot begin to imagine
the compromises you may have been
forced to make in cold winters,
moons before I was born.


Captured by Germans, and held
against your will of course,
and forced to work.
I was a medic, like you, you tell me.
You volunteer no more about that time,
and part of me is grateful not to know.


Reinvention: after the war
you had to be something new.
A name change, different scenery.
Welcome to the Lucky Country.
I wonder if you were given the option
to remain a doctor, would you have?


You are proud of your promotions,
your achievements in your new role.
You have made something
of this life.
I wonder what haunts you,
and if you have actually been happy here.


Could you ever have imagined
lying here towards the end of your days,
in pain, helping future doctors learn
about medicine and life?
I wonder what you would change,
if you could start it all over.