Statistic
by Denise Felt 1994
The echo as the door
closed behind me
cut like a scalpel,
removing my wounded
heart but callously
forgetting anesthetics --
if I stand still enough
the pain will pass
on through and
be gone --
the room offered
no comfort
from the silver-framed
Monet to the empty
fireplace to the bar
stools placed precisely
six inches apart
and echoes reverberated
through this museum --
no, this mausoleum --
full of decaying oddities
that have outlived
their usefulness yet didn't
have the decency to die
and put an end to the misery --
pain choked off my breath
for a brief moment --
still the echoing room mocked
my somewhat incomplete
resurrection, asking
What will I do? do? do?
by Denise Felt 1994
The echo as the door
closed behind me
cut like a scalpel,
removing my wounded
heart but callously
forgetting anesthetics --
if I stand still enough
the pain will pass
on through and
be gone --
the room offered
no comfort
from the silver-framed
Monet to the empty
fireplace to the bar
stools placed precisely
six inches apart
and echoes reverberated
through this museum --
no, this mausoleum --
full of decaying oddities
that have outlived
their usefulness yet didn't
have the decency to die
and put an end to the misery --
pain choked off my breath
for a brief moment --
still the echoing room mocked
my somewhat incomplete
resurrection, asking
What will I do? do? do?