There
is a stifled breath, a quietened fear.
A
heartbeat skipped.
She
waits the night to take her up,
scoop
her up to silvered moon.
There
is a quiver to his voice,
a
loss of vocal strength,
he
fraught with angst and ancientness.
He
sits with her, beside her then,
takes
her fingers in his gnarled and knotted hand,
grinding
bone against her wedding band;
she
winces then as yelp spills from those thin whitened lips.
He
is mortified, beside himself,
consumed
with guilt he drops her hand
and
she screams she screams she screams.
Oh
Jesus I’m so so so so sorry, he cries
and
rocks his moaning head in those knotty bony things
that
once offered love, now only help rack up her pain.
He
stands now, shuffles up aside the bed
til
near enough to bend, plant the softest kisses on her head.
And
those gnarled and knotted hands,
now
the gentlest and most loving things
comb
his tears through sparse strands of hair
that
lick her scalp as if clinging onto life.
She
gurgles then.
And
he loses her.
She
looks tiny now, a tiny doll,
white
porcelain face, eyes black still pools.
He
wails as she dissolves into the night.
Anna
:o]
Linked
to Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Night.
Image:
Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author:
Everflowingriver
