or being dead. I’ll be on the bus to Will’s or something 
             and suddenly I’ll be thinking again about Goethe’s 

dying words, More light, or how the last thing 
             Archimedes said was Do not disturb my circles. 

In medieval English courts, the presumption was 
             that those on the edge of death would tell the truth:

a man will not meet his maker with a lie in his mouth. 
             If you knew that you were about to die, you could 

say whatever you liked and they had to believe you. 
             One time in a Spanish hotel I was almost sure I was dying

and the only word I could say was ambulance. 
             Before she called the emergency number, Frances 

had to look up the Spanish words for asthma attack 
             and heart problem. I remember she stumbled at corazón 

and said coraza instead, meaning breastplate 
             or armour, as in There’s a problem with his armour. 

Dad says that my first word after mum was hospital 
             but I’m scared that when I’m dying I’ll say armour 

instead of heart or I’ll say sky when I mean 
             window or I’ll say heaven when I mean heaven.

Or maybe I’ll have nothing to say at all, like 
             the time you took me to St Paul’s and we stood 

at opposite ends of the whispering gallery. 
             This was like three Aprils ago. You kept saying 

Say something, say something, but I panicked and 
             all I could say was I don’t know, I’m sorry, I love you.