#7: The Onion Room

So we sit, sobbing in packs,
faces red and distended like shower caps
rescued from an oven.

The livid purple of her cheeks
matches her tongue, I notice
in my grief.
I lose my thread a bit
and have to work myself back
into mourning unselfconsciously.

Outside the room is a second layer
where researchers in green sweaters
drink energy drinks
with a listless abandon.
They score our display
against a tick-list of behaviours.

Outside their layer is a tier
where poets scribble on wallpaper rolls
in a fervent white heat of creation,
turning the dead hand of science
into radiant art.

The next layer is a studio audience,
applauding, gasping,
voting via buttons
on the arms of their chairs.

The next layer is me.

The next layer is you.