Nothing Heavier Than Silence
by Arlene Ang
An hour before seven we return to bed.
Quarter moon in the ward shines
from almond gelatin left in saucers.
Whispers from sheets touch on weather,
tomorrow's supper, whose children
brought flowers, the lucky ones.
Then we fall back into those plastic
plates, our compressed breasts,
the envelope containing answers.
Nurses approach, their rubber soles
a lull before the storm. We watch
the clock in the hallway change hands.
It's the silence that murders,
Mrs Stiles mutters. They wheel her
away like chicken soup nobody wanted.
Arlene Ang is the author of The Desecration of Doves (iUniverse, 2005). Her poetry has appeared in flashquake, Forklift Ohio, 42opus, Pebble Lake Review, Poetry Ireland, Rattle and elsewhere. She received The 2006 Frogmore Poetry Prize and is a poetry editor for The Pedestal Magazine. She lives in Spinea, Italy. Her website is www.leafscape.org/aang.