Waiting’s worse. She knows it.
That old feeling known since
childhood. Then it was the parent,
the heavy hand, the punishment.
This is like it, but not like it. She
waits for him to come home. His
footfalls in the hall, his voice along
the passage. To gauge the tone,
the loud or softness. She sits, waits.
Be prepared, the mother said,
years back. The clock in the hall
sounds loud with its tick tock. Puts
hands between the thighs, anxiety
bites. For better for worse, the
vows said. Bruises like medals,
black eyes as reminders, a colour
ranging from black and blue to green
to brown or whatever it is. She *****
an ear. Him? Maybe. The last time
it was she’d been seen with some
feller. She’d not of course. But it suited
as an excuse. She’d lost the baby by
the fall down stairs. What was that
all about? Was that the time she had
been late with his dinner? Or was that
some other? Baby’d be walking now.
Missed the first steps, the first word,
the live birth. Is that him? She bites a
finger nail. Feelings seem to run along
the nerves. What to say? What words?
The door opens along the hall, his voice
echoes mildly, we shall wait, we shall see.