The Mourning Room
She sits and studies the barely there stain on the wall,
just a shade darker than the duck egg blue that had been
selected after such agonising indecision
anxiety hammering against her ribcage
as she applied its harmony blue hue to the tongue and groove
that seemed to mock her in vertical pantomime laughter.
She wishes she had taken heed of their cautionary parody,
now paid the penalty (had known it was inevitable),
recounting the thud of her head against the boards
not unlike the thump that is made when the kids toss
in restless slumber and kick the wall.
And now this badge of dishonour left behind to remind of her
of how wrong the tint had been, stupid woman.
Would any colour have been right?
Her fingers tap an involuntary SOS on the tabletop,
where her third child had been unwillingly conceived
upon its cold hard marble surface
only to be knocked out of her and carried away
to the floor on which it stood.
Crimsy posy patterns against porcelain Italian tiles,
departed before it had barely begun
its tiny embryonic heartbeat grieved for just the same.
She draws in deeply on her cigarette,
serpentine swirls of smoke reaching upwards
to the pendant light emitting its soft radiant glow
trying to deceive her into thinking that this contemporary room
with its granite benchtops and stainless steel affluence
was the model family kitchen.
Of wafting biscuits baking and children’s animated chatter
and not as she knew it to really be.
This room of two minute pleasure and decade long pain.
Her gaze fixated on the stain.