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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3347 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention The Room E V Brooks (lia) She sits in a brown leather chair. Her sleeve is the shoreline when it brushes the pages. She does not speak in sentences. Cheekbones suspend high above narrow lips. Smoke-blue eyes stay with the pen as she runs fingers across a pale band of skin. The blind almost finds the sill, but for two inches- enough for daylight to pass within, but not to give view to the room. My voice is naked-- it touches each wall to find a way back to me, splits words on the floor as I talk about a man I met on the bus today, who visits his wife at St. Marks each Wednesday. Hands curve perfectly with the handle of a walking-stick, eyes aluminous behind white roses his wife cherished. I frown at the tissues-- patient wings of angels poised above their altar, on the low, oak table. This room is cold, weighted with silence and rosemary. Black arrows point north-east, 3.15 and release. |
