Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sarah Wright Sep 2019
In his office I twiddle my thumbs. Remembering blood red
poppies in a field in a painting at the National.
*** and risk rub together like skin on teeth.
Occasionally he throws me a glance, his skin paunched
and heavy
Eyes like a basset hound.
A mans terminal illness dictated like a
sonnet,
The final enemy is death.
His hands cupped like the goblet that holds the blessed communion,
his diction the holy bread
dissolving on the top of his tongue.
Eventually he turns to me and asks
“where is it that you have come from?”
The thin light pours in through his slatted blinds
and my shyness seems to stretch into eternity:
you are my obsession -
“I used to care for people with blood cancer”
I croak.
Sarah Wright Sep 2019
Her knuckles red
made tight around her
bouquet
as she prepares
to fasten herself
to him.

She is an orchid
midsummer bloom
and blowing into
Autumn.

Last night she lingered
on the egde of a dream
cats eyes
forest green

Trees trembling
Summer solstice
those women in hats
dancing

Spinning into the night.
He presses himself
into her palm.
Its just us now
He says.

— The End —