Seventy-Two Inches
by Judith Cullen
© 2021
Smiling is useless,
a flex beneath
filtering layers
expressing nothing.
Trying the eyes
results in odd
bulging twitches
like transitory gas.
One hundred and
eighty two centimetres,
seventy two inches
of cavernous void.
Our beings long for
rituals of comfort in
a frightening world,
stretching out.
