• Vol. 05
  • Chapter 12
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The Colour of Silence

It split her in half, in two,
like grey granite hemispheres.
Her entire left side emptied.
And I’m googling brain bleed,
intracerebral haemorrhage,
looking at pictures of brains.
Walnuts. I can’t help it —
brains look like walnuts.
And the doctor says she’s
in a coma. Deep. Aneurysm.
I go cold, my stomach knots
into an icy stream’s bend.
I am a pulse. Blindsided.
There’s DNR written on her
wristband. Nothing beeping,
nothing churning, or turning.
She’s a bird without flight.
A cloud without air. She’s
a hollow peace waiting
for God's whispered end.
The nurse says, talk to her,
she might hear you, but
I am as silent as grass.
Mum died the following day,
peaceful as a meadow and
quiet as stars. I’d like to think
that she sang her way through
life's cliffs, life’s anchorage,
and wrapped herself warm
into the night sky. As for me,


The Colour of Silence

I watch the stars in silence,
feel grey granite's hollow peace.
A silence — like white.
What colour is silence?