Issue #2

The Waiting Room

Dawn’s brightness seeped through
the windows,
lifting the blackness of the previous night.
Outside, growth resurrecting after its coma whilst the moon shone.
The enveloped petals opened,
welcoming the warmth like the gesture before a hug,
mingled with the desirous cheeps of birds in the nest
waiting, for the back and forth of servant mothers.

But the glass, impenetrable.
The crisp whiteness of the décor,
indistinguishable from the blank expressions
sat around the metal frame of the bed.
My watch-strap clinking against the end,
sounding more like the tolling of church bells;
this lonesome sound,
replacing the steady bleep, bleep, bleep of his machine.

His encasement was carried through the pews
Like a ship floating along a river,
filled with our tears.
Yet feeling stagnant below the noire valley.
We followed him outside, emerging
like a tribe of ants exploding out of a hole in the ground.
The same bird sounds,
the same brightness of that day.
Pathetic fallacy lost and inverted outside the church.
Rain clouds would be more welcome,
but they were reluctant except on our faces.
The mascara falling in two drips
down my cheeks,
the image of far off rain.

I become like the flowers enveloped by my mum’s arms
wishing it to be night again,
so sleep could erase the thoughts
running round my brain,
evading realisation.

Lucy Rowe