The Pending Silence, Or, Three Days Without Breathing

Three days. The email came,

a sterile kind of blame.

'Your results are pending.'

That blank white space, never ending

in its refusal to be full.

My gut clenches, a cruel

knot every time the phone

lights up, or a chime is shown.

It’s a slow poison, this wait,

a kind of silent gate

that won’t open, or close.

Just hangs there. God knows

what's behind it. I picture words,

medical, like little birds

pecking at my peace.

Just a little release,

I think. A yes or a no.

But it’s this suspended slow

drip of not knowing, that hurts.

This quiet. These sudden spurts

of panic. It’s just pending.

And my breath, it keeps bending

away from me. Away.