Oct/Nov 2007 Poetry


by Arlene Ang


sonnenizio on a line from Ros Barber

A light snapped off, and you're gone. You're in the dark.
Like a Chekov play after the last living actor fries
the audience with a stun gun. Sarcophagal.
Somewhere a baby is crying. You turn off the shower.

It drips a chill down your back. You listen: an off-road
sound of police sirens, your teeth chattering offkey.
Unwashed soap slimes your fingers like offal.
The plastic curtain bristles an offset of shadows.

Your body steps out as if meet the official executioner.
You claw for a towel. It falls off. Everything you
touch is cold. You leave an Offenbach ballet of water
on the tiles. Next door, an alarm clock goes off.

The bathroom is a coffin. You've had your last light,
your last coffee. You had a number to call. Now it's lost.


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