LXVI | Solace

❦

After so much screaming,
I’ve lost my voice.

I can’t see anything.

My eyes are sealed shut
by something heavy and wet.

The arms let go
of my waist,

wipe the tears off my face.

I take hold of one hand
but it is wrest from my grip.

Thin. Slender. Soft.
Alive.

The voice is muffled
even though
I’m not screaming anymore.

(Did I bust my eardrums?)

‘… me tissue.’

‘I do not have that. I am a donkey.’

‘Not even one piece?’

‘I have no need for tissues.’

Rowan.
It’s Rowan.

The hands are
back,

this time
there’s a piece of cloth
between us.

The sleeve of a shirt.

‘Don’t speak,’
she says to me.

I close my aching mouth
          —I hadn’t realised it was open.

 

‘What did you show him?
‘Why is he like this?’

I’m okay now, I want to say.

I want to hug you, I want to say.

But I make do
with the smell of her shampoo
and the gentle touch
of her hand.

The donkey doesn’t reply her.

I search for
her heartbeat
until I find it.

When she’s done,
I open my eyes

and see her coal-black ones
staring right into mine.

Can I kiss you? I think.

No, she thinks back.

I smile.

Her expressionless expression
breaks into a faint smile.

Her hand fits into mine
like a puzzle piece.

She leads me from the rowan tree
into the nearby building.

I don’t register how it looks,
or how I got here.

It’s big and white.

And I’m watching
the tip of Rowan’s ears

turning red.

I’m glad to see you again.

She squeezes
my hand.

 

 

 

❦

Inside,
the building is white too.

It’s almost entirely empty.

There’s a counter
we approach
that Rowan asks for two tickets.

‘Where are we?’

My own voice sounds foreign to me now.

She turns to me,
blank white cards
in her hand.

‘Don’t talk if it still hurts.’

She’s wearing a grey hoodie
and a long black skirt.

Her usual mismatched look.
It suits her
best

after all.

‘This is a museum of souls,’
she says.

I look around for the donkey.

It isn’t here.

‘Nya-Nya’s waiting for me outside.’

She tugs on my hand.
I follow her

through a white door
into another white room

with glass boxes
on white pedestals.

‘What a weird museum,’ I say.

My voice is less hoarse now.
Rowan notices it too.

 

The artefact
in the glass box
in front of us

is an extremely tall stack of white paper.

I can’t see
what’s on them

but one of the papers
has escaped the pile

and is pressed against the glass
          like it’s calling for help.

A skewed circle is drawn
in black marker.

Rowan points at the white tag
on the white pedestal
just below that loose piece of paper.

I WON’T STOP UNTIL
THE CIRCLE IS PERFECT.

The next glass box holds
a plastic slot machine—

the kind made for kids to play.

I AM RIGHT.

One glass box contains
instant food.

I ONLY HAVE FIVE MINUTES.

Another one,
a single wedding ring.

HOLD ON TO ME.

A painting mauled beyond recognition by
one hundred darts.

I’M NOT PRETTY ENOUGH.

I don’t know why
when I look at each glass box,

LIFE IS MEANINGLESS.

I feel

WHY AM I INVISIBLE?

like crying.

NOBODY’S HOME.

This last exhibit
has no glass box,
no pedestal.

Only a metal barrier.

The caption is mounted
on one of the metal poles.

‘Do you need my sleeve again?’
Rowan whispers.

Her voice
echoes
in the white chamber.

And I realise
I’m crying again.

Why?

It’s just
a naked
rowan tree.

 

 

 

❦