• joybirdpoetry 5w

    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.