His Answer

He uncupped his hands and left her right ear.
When he removed his face, there was a chill
Where his head was close to hers.
Her chest began to burn and soon her throat.
Her eyes remained blank, unseeing.
Her face was bleeding
Or maybe they were tears. . .

She didn’t dare shift her stare
As she pictured perfectly
His mouth opening and shutting
And the curl of his lips as they bared his teeth
When he said what he had to say,
Gentle and soft, then walked away.

She relived the moment again and again,
Standing still, grasping at the notes in his voice;
A small word, so many notes.
With a sing song melody he spoke,
As a favor to her, in a whisper
So she wouldn’t suffer the sound. . .

She asked if she meant anything to him
And he might as well have bellowed
Because all she could hear,
As her face glowed orange under the streetlamps,
And the wind made dancing circles
Of leaves around her feet,
Was the echo of a cruel and patronizing



About Margaret Wang

In this crazy World, if we have something to say we should say it; whether in word, song, dance or paint. As writers, we write what we must, what we see, what we feel and what others experience but cannot articulate or understand. This is the duty and power of the writer; to release into the world our visions and our passions as if bleeding dry. Here at Stuck Pig I give you my word and hope that my voice reaches like minds so they know they are not alone, and unlike minds so they may share my glasses for a day. This is life lived as me, digested by me and translated for anyone caring to step out of their shoes for a few paragraph’s length. I am vulnerable and opinionated. You may judge me justly or unjustly, as I judge the rest of the world. I invite you to view Life through my window. View all posts by Margaret Wang

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