THE SLAB

Darkness. Texture of soot and fumes.
The world worn thin. Exit – zero.
A sickly sweet smell. The walls will settle
Into the throat, the memory, the brick silt.

Father swallows the silence: “It will pass…”
Mother fades on the syllable “No-“
A child’s “Ma-” stuck in the cracks,
Where flesh turns into clay.

The ceiling squeezes out the last of the moisture.
The panel’s maw. Black exhaustion.
Time is gone. The pulse in the temple –
Living pulp in a stone palm.

Empty casings count the minutes.
Dust became language. Voice – iron.
The sky is a slab, pressed down low.
Won’t be dug out. Death is too close.

One.
Two.
T…
…
…