The Chronicle of a slow disappearance. Part two

Three feet from the door

Steve Szewczok © 2021 All Rights Reserved

I can hear Her laboured breath 

A wheezing breeze captured by lungs thin air

At this altitude her oxygen 

should last another eight months

The cold October moon rests it’s tired eyes 

on this thin transparent sky

The look between her flesh

Her hard rising hands 

control her broken movement 

And she has risen above her son

In the quiet fractured blackness before dawn

She dreams on 

she commits to what she sees 

in that dim dead of night

She looks for a mother ’s light

someone, Anyone 

to nurture the uneasiness of her sight

She stands three feet from her door 

But she can not cross over 

She will not cross over 

Not yet its not the time

Or the place for such cold feet

So, she stands in a hooded inlet

Her escape only three feet away 

But will she take it? 

Or

Will she disappear

to another port

in another harbour

on another island

three feet from her door?