The stage is set, the lights go dim,
the shining of the light gestures down the tunnel
where I can see the other side – at least,
they want me too. Closing eyes like
shutting doors, outstretched tree limbs are
crooked hands; tuning white noise,
the conflict is internalised. Until
I hear voices whispering, sounds
quieter than accidental coughs. The arctic wind
blows over my skin, but gypsy skirts were
never good in the cold.
The voices tiptoe forwards like a
trickling stream of consciousness, so the doors
slam open, eyes wide and searching.
We thaw winter frost
when I don’t want to hear anymore.
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