Interstitial Poem by Shikhandin Shikhandin

It is everywhere. Between every rain lance.
Atoms of air. Nothing is spared.
Something is wasted between
the tasting and the tasted.
The hearing and the heard.
The uttered and the unuttered word.
The deed. And what is about to be,
And what you have seen or will soon see.
There is space even when you cannot tell
for sure. It is waiting, always waiting for the bell
to ring in its own blessed time. For it to claim,
and total up the wins and losses of the game.
You mustn't fool yourself, even when
on the surface everything looks the same,
because it isn't. Everything is changed.
Turned around. Gone. Dead and finished.
Except for them - the besides
and the in-betweens. They survive.
They come alive
in their especially designated spaces.

(First published in Beate Sigriddaughter's 'Writing in a Woman's Voice')