The silent scream
She’d thought to avoid,
avoid the couple from
last night’s party,
but she’d reprimanded her
silliness, and had gone
DOWN to breakfast.
overextended in sociability,
it hadn’t occurred to her
that they’d all have to
share the same table.
Just how much more massaging
of a man’s ego could she do?
She was happy to acknowledge
his intellect and learning, but
did it have to be in every conversation?
She stared out the window
overlooking the Quantocks,
and found only her body
present in the dining room,
the rest of her was running
through the fields and trees,
panting at escape, to find herself –
alone in a secluded copse,
where she hollered for all she was worth.
At least there was the reward
of knowing the couple would be
absent between now and the
afternoon’s resumption of festivities:
Him and Her had to buy a kettle.
But, for this one nugget of release,
she’d had to endure the moment-
by-moment deliberation on how
they’d discovered the faulty utility
“..blah blah..the oven light was
still on, so it couldn’t be a
power cut..blah blah”.
At least with this news, she felt able to
return to her room, refresh herself in the shower singing:
“that’s why you’ll always find me
(hiding) in the bathroom at parties”, and
wondering why, unlike a genuine smile,
faking it always ached the cheekbones.