It Is a Story
Sitting in the frigid chapel every Wednesday morning,
Three hours of numbing speech and staring up
At fragmented glass and intricate light.
Talk of people peeling themselves apart,
Shattering themselves from bridges over water.
The boy found unconscious in the cemetery
A trail of clothes and paracetamol packets.
People plummeting through water and onto tracks
Used to flow through my dreams, cracking
the surface of sleep.
Today only the icy weight
in my chest and nausea
To hear words unfaltering spoken
of broken things;
Abusive fathers, prisoners,
strangled toddlers,
Scissor stabbed hands and
insects creeping beneath
the surface of skin.
But we sit in the chapel
And clasp our hands
Against the cold.
I tell myself,
It is a story
Or something
seen through distorted glass.
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