The Day After Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The day after the bombs fell,
After the fire warden, running with his tin hat,
The screams, the flames, the stirrup pump, the terror,
Dust settled on a newly ravaged street

Homes were card-houses,
Higgledy-piggeldy, lying like drunks
In insecure repose.

Matchsticked floors rose up
Like the bones of a Sunday chicken
Still waving wallpaper
The spit and polish of daily life was suspended.

Curious bystanders, neighbours,
Stood in awe of the dead homes
Spilling domestic entrails over the road

Some, too numb to grieve,
Make the death-defying dive into denial

Who could balance the books?
A child’s doll, trapped in the rubble
Held onto her hidden owner
Waiting the spade, the shovel, the makeshift undertaker

The silent human audiences,
In a still life, real life movie
Are always the ones who pay the price of war.