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This hospital has a room
for weeping. It has no crèche.
No canteen. No washroom queue.
Only this queue for weeping.
No lost property booth. No
complaints department. Or
reception. No office of second
opinion. Of second chances. Its sons
and daughters die with surprise
in their faces. But mothers
must not cry before them. There is
a room for weeping. How hard
the staff are trying. Sometimes
they use the rooms themselves. They
must hose it out each evening.
The State is watching. They made
this room for weeping. No remission –
no quick fixes. A father wonders
if his boy is sleeping. A mother
rakes her soul for healing. Neighbours
in the corridor – one is screaming
It moved from your child to mine.
More come. Until the linoleum
blurs with tears and the walls
are heaving. Until the place can't
catch its breath – sour breath
of pine. And at its heart
this room.
by Mario Petrucci
from Heavy Water: a poem for Chernobyl
Enitharmon Press, 2004, London