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‘The Waiting Room’

I used to sit and paint blue prints in the museum of hearts,
the unborn lookalikes tethered benignly in the adjacent
pleated room, dissimilar as bulbs.
Disposed dispossessed.
I listened to the ghosts in the radio cabs night after
night thoughts blurting from between days that happened years ago
People always presume my sister and I are telepathic
or on the wrong side of a mirror like taking a dip
not always lucky the sensation of flying in the chasm
of a London street gulping air and specks
of fear beneath grizzled stars.

I was a magicians assistant concealing
myself her face exposed alone like the moon
the impression of having been dismembered.
I dream myself invisible waves smooth over faults
to make a pearl one day from these ruins.

Deborah Sibbald lives, works and writes in London. She wrote this poem during the wonderful Re- inventing Dada anti-poetry course led by Melissa Lee-Houghton.

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Image Credits:

Lisa Larson-Walker