by Alisa Gordaneer
the newsroom is silent, the clitter of fingers
paused, the electric current
of air a river moving
and unrecorded
by the fax, your best friend
holds her head and watches,
paper waiting white in its tray
her face smudged with toner,
mascara
a phone rings
on your desk.
someone answers, shakes their head.
still we wait. we who
have laughed at worse, washed
chills away
with you, ouzo and whisky
last night, before you went
just to see.
the message this morning said
they had you. would kill you.
or give you up.
nobody negotiates anymore.
you will be. or not.
we have been given a deadline .
the news must be told.
we are struck dumb with the thought
it has happened
and we
are silent.
Alisa Gordaneer is the editor of Monday Magazine, an alternative newsweekly in Victoria, BC, Canada, where she lives and writes on an urban homestead with her family. She is currently working on a novel and a collection of poems.
