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Sitting on the empty sofa in the waiting room

Waiting

To be called;

Palms sweaty, throat small, mind cogs grinding

Every eventuality.

Not the doctor’s, not the dentist, not even

The school nurse’s office.

The sofa is not a sofa.

It is a stark white chair outside your

Parents’ study,

And you are waiting

Waiting

For them to notice.

 

 

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35 whispering skulls

The pillars have shattered.

White-hot fire leaps up my skin

surging through every vein, every capillary, every cell.

Cold mist coils around me,

shapeless shadows guilt-trip my actions

as I rush past the sea of dried lavender filled pockets.

I hear my name called.

Sing-songing down the corridor,

trying to distract me from reaching

the thin silver column presenting itself as a door.

I ignore it, and step through

taking the elevator straight up.

Up and up and up.

Dressing by the fire

The warmth around my shoulders,

soft as flames in the evening,

conceals the sting in my chest.

My jumper soft and safe is no longer,

now only the writhing buzz of bees

trying to make a hive from my emptiness.

But honey – I do not like the taste of it.

The Waiting Room

A kettle boils somewhere in the house.

Cold. Distant. An echo.

A woman in a black veil falls

into the wash of the waterfall.

Whispers in the front room,

a herd of puppets

knocking in to each other:

frequent looks to the wooden case on display.

 

Tink, tink!

 

The herd’s attention is drawn,

as the kettle shrieks,

to a single speaker whose vague body

just about distinguishes itself

from the bled-out decor.

Dry words. Pale words. Words said with a wry grin and frail voice.

Lost.

All at once, the herd vanishes.

 

The kettle gets poured.