She drops a bomb. It falls like a feather.
It descends slowly, drifting, ebbing, back and forth.
It falls on frothy carpet, frayed and worn, and I fumble.
It seems we’ve lost our way, blood spilling from our seams.
This is bad news.
Why, then, can I not see that on her face?
Her eyes do not shatter, splinter about the room
Like I thought they should. She is not fazed.
But she must be. She is made of stone.
In that moment she is permanent, rooted to the office floor.
But a parasite has buried itself into her bosom.
It has dug a home for itself in her breast, and it is vile,
It has burst inside of her, growing without her permission
On a wretched mission to kill her. And suddenly
I fear for her heart.
What if it bores too deep? What if it reaches her very soul
And leaves her lifeless and stale and empty? Sold.
To the highest bidder. To whichever person in the room is fast enough.
Whoever can save a life that doesn’t seem to know
That it’s in danger. Oh, but there it is.
Maybe she catches what’s running through my head,
Or maybe she’s been sprinting the same race all along.
There it is, in the recess of her eyes, a fear that I see tenfold.
Like a mushroom cloud, mounting, emerging,
From the hollows of her body, but she reigns it in.
She sighs and she calls it home, like the streetlights have dimmed,
Like a vacuum switched on. I can see it all, relapsing
Back into her matte black body. A ticking bomb.
For Abigial
It descends slowly, drifting, ebbing, back and forth.
It falls on frothy carpet, frayed and worn, and I fumble.
It seems we’ve lost our way, blood spilling from our seams.
This is bad news.
Why, then, can I not see that on her face?
Her eyes do not shatter, splinter about the room
Like I thought they should. She is not fazed.
But she must be. She is made of stone.
In that moment she is permanent, rooted to the office floor.
But a parasite has buried itself into her bosom.
It has dug a home for itself in her breast, and it is vile,
It has burst inside of her, growing without her permission
On a wretched mission to kill her. And suddenly
I fear for her heart.
What if it bores too deep? What if it reaches her very soul
And leaves her lifeless and stale and empty? Sold.
To the highest bidder. To whichever person in the room is fast enough.
Whoever can save a life that doesn’t seem to know
That it’s in danger. Oh, but there it is.
Maybe she catches what’s running through my head,
Or maybe she’s been sprinting the same race all along.
There it is, in the recess of her eyes, a fear that I see tenfold.
Like a mushroom cloud, mounting, emerging,
From the hollows of her body, but she reigns it in.
She sighs and she calls it home, like the streetlights have dimmed,
Like a vacuum switched on. I can see it all, relapsing
Back into her matte black body. A ticking bomb.
For Abigial
