Scorched Earth Policy. Poem by Brevet Wilson

We sat on the floor,
surrounded by obsolete maps.
Planning our 'great escape'
to places that no longer have names.

She said 'We live in the in between places'

Bus and train schedules littered the coffee table
all marked with highlighters.

This is what happens when you burn your home town to the ground
and salt the earth
so nothing will ever grow there again.
The city is haunted,
we both knew more people in the cemetary
than in houses and apartments.

So we would pour over the maps and schedules
drunk on red wine
drunk on the possibilities afforded to those who have nothing.

She, finally, managed her escape from a place where only the dead have names.