27th Hour

by Heather Carnaghan

Crumpled tissues sit bedside,
wet with twenty seven hours of sweat
and tears so salty they’ve left crystalline tracks on my cheeks

The glasses I’d never before removed for fear of missing a moment
are strewn, one leg splayed
their lenses fogged with bloody fingerprints
and organic remnants of the moment I wished I had been blind to.   

I scan the room, wild eyed,
trying to find the source
of that horrible noise.


It assaults my ears and pastes a look of horror on my husbands ragged face.

A wail
so deep and terrible that
it hails from a primitive part of the psyche
that has no words for this pain.

The audience stands,
hesitantly at first,
wringing their hands
and covering their mouths
as they realize what I am searching for.


The sorrowful ovation
faces me
and at last
the source is clear.