A Passport Poem by James McLain

Dust,
fine as talc om powder floats down in the air.
Windows begin there dance
as they crack while the walls groan as
if giving birth.
Feint in the distance.
Explosions.
Discernible if but barley.
One wall miscarries it's books.
Rifling through the box hidden away
just for this moment,
we all knew would come, unprepared.
Fantine takes Jean by the hand.
Gathering up the twins,
Rigor has not yet stiffened Capucine.
Unable to carry her to.
Knowing we may never see her again,
the sounds growing dangerously closer.
Hurriedly,
I gently remove her full swollen breasts
and as the twins are always hungry
each scurry towards a nipple.
With their clenched fists and biting mouths.
As the passports are tucked safely away.
Left thus with each dripping and splayed
perhaps I pray
that the soldiers will not do it again,
when they come.
We were one pass short of the bay today.