Member Poem

In that bathroom, she read the book of Job.
Or it read her, from the first breath she held
as rebel boots trod boards above her head
to sorrow’s exhalation in a sob.
War’s theater, acts of murder ended,
the beads of seven sorrows cool her hands;
she closes family books, understands
(yet opens onto mornings that are void)
why curious visions were debated
till a cursed cockroach grew an angel’s wings.
There’s another who escaped the terror,
while others felt the cold blades that hated:
his name is Kindness. He no longer sings.
Whispers words of caution like a brother.

Published inThe Journal (UK), issue 46, 2015.