|
|||||
|
In the Waiting Room
He imagines her dead. He imagines her more and more thoroughly dead - and in her death the room starts losing heat. He sees himself over her body: he touches her face, touches her wrist - Leave the room, he tells the nurses, I want to touch some more. The walls are cold, the floors as well, and as he touches her body - her neck, stomach, legs, and feet - the coldness grows and grows until it is so giant and straining with light he thinks it is the mind of God. Yes, he thinks he is
in the mind of God and he can feel every crack in the floor and the walls; the veins in his eyes, touching her still; floating out. |
|||||
|
Rauan (Ron) Klassnik was made in a flash of light. His dad frowned and his mother poured herself a nice cold glass of water. On the edge of the jungle he now collects love birds and parrots. And two pale grey cockatiels. His poems have appeared (or are forthcoming) in The Mississippi Review, Sentence, Caesura, The Santa Clara Review, The North American Review, Hunger Mountain, MiPoesias, Pilot Poetry, No Tell Motel and others. |
|||||||||
Date of Publication: 02 May 2007 |
|||||||||
|
|||||||||