Poetry By
Stephanie Stanley Walls
Published on: 3/25/2013
Still
I'm so sorry is what they say, And the words pinch away at my flesh; For I am the one who must comfort them In their state of awkward, shocked sympathy. I want to be alone, to cry, and shout at God. I want to fold into my husband's chest And sob until my eyes are swollen shut; But they are here, and I must be strong. Friends glance across my dining room table At unopened gifts, But they don't ask, And I will not give them back Because this is my pain, My hole, my gouged-out womb, And I will keep these gifts In return for consoling them in my time of need. Maybe I will construct an altar, Or make a burnt offering With these gifts, But I will not give them back. For I now reside in a place Of unwelcome prestige, A place whose inhabitants Soberly sip the delicate moments of life. For I have seen the beginning and end of time Flash across my husband's eyes When he gasped, She's beautiful, As the doctor shoved him away. Now I sit among the murmurs Of well-meaning others. Their consolations prick me While I smile And strain To hear the first cry That eternity abducted On the stillbirth-day Of my perfect baby girl.
Published on: 3/22/2013
The Late Show
The clanging of ice on glass tolls through the kitchen. Footsteps brush the floor as she slogs Toward the decrepit couch cushion. Crinkling cellophane and creaking cardboard Reveal her companions: Twenty slender suitors dressed in white, Each waiting to give her a five-minute sacrificial kiss: And a distraction from the barren telephone. With a gale-wind sigh, She reaches for the lighter and the remote. Darkness saturates dusk, As flickering images pummel her blunt eyes. Lips that once dripped with lovers' passions Now pucker around the smoldering dry vices, Filling her chest with Soot that won't soothe The cavernous ache. Muffled babbling wafts from the television, Attempting to arrest Her sideways glances Toward the mute machine, Until midnight Leaves her With a sip of stale scotch-water from a tepid glass, And a pregnant ashtray to escort her Across the dull linoleum, Through the kitchen, Along the balding carpet, To her crisp, Fresh, Empty bed.
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