through Kings Cross. no stops. feint
smoke odours. eerie empty horror
twilight. twelve people look up,
eyes shift, lips purse.
ipod-mobile-newspaper lulled far
from bits of flesh. rubble twitch begging,
please, a silent moment! my son’s jaws
work at my breast. terrorise
on our way to the dentist. milk drunk
eyelashes kiss cheeks.
limbs dead in my arms.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem