Sarah Gonnet

Side Order

The ache

that a baby

is supposed to fill

waved at me from a distance.

I saw it

burst, what emerged

was grotesque:

blonde wires,

porcelain doll cheeks,

slightly cracked,

lips that refuse to meet.

She screams “You should have chosen me!”

Then she leaves.

Only her silvery imprint remains;

branded on my brain.

I stare into the space she filled,

then down another handful of pills.


Tight squares,

shapes of the computer age,

yet half scrawled over in paints.

The paint’s preoccupation being to

black out the blank screen

up to its next cycle of darkness.

Labels blaze in, pale grey fire.

They say “liar”.

They say “pain”.

They say “damned”.

They say “create”.

Sarah Gonnet © 2015

These poems are taken from the upcoming chapbook Voices (Survivors’ Poetry)