15 NOVEMBER 2008, Page 42

T RACHEOTOMY

Summer peels him, his last rice-paper skin, Who plays his throat like a tin whistle, Stops the brown hole with yellowed finger, And makes a note like a tin whistle — Wanting something: coffee — black. But Will it dribble through to burn The fingers playing his next words? You and I won’t speak again With the heat of speech . . .

Still I want to catch your shoulder as you go, To have you know you’re still What drills the hole from throat to soul.

Valerie Jack