A Faint Voice Drawled
Every night, wrists torn, he struggles.
Pulled and pinched, until he sees without a word or a sign
That there is something broken in her.
In the early hours of every day amidst mute, stupefied faces
His head drops, horrified at his own fury. In the dark
She turns and walks down the path, sobbing draughts of air.
By her side, fallen to pieces momentarily, he touches her arm.
For an instant, in his mind, there is no motion in their equilibrium.
Her stomach is rigid, his hands cold.
Alone now he remembers something worse than misery
And cries, his broad shoulders bend to the ground -
A huge factory chimney trembling in the middle of a dead town,
Swaying before it learns to fall.
He returns to their room, aware
That time has become something different, and yet
To him, there was nothing rude or untidy there.
He looks over the railings. Bows, smiles, offers.
On his last afternoon they had walked on clearly defined sides,
His intentions a cold feast of snow, ugly and bleak.
She broke off and they were both silent.
Then she kissed him until the sky seemed to fade
And her tears seemed to vanish.
Copyright © Sarah Widenbar | Year Posted 2005
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