Aleppo by Cath Campbell

I am not a silent poet

Sharp on her tongue, acid
the berry she’s spent, but wanting
to sup the hell out the night
and shut away the bodies,
the trashed mosaic
of bone and flesh
from a country she’ll never visit.

The pictures come too fast,
roil up her throat,
burning gullet,
backfiring vomit.
They bombed the place
and it was murder, she says
to the no-one on the next stool.

She slides loose,
head astrum with the six o clock news,
views floor through haze,
numb-toed, torso swayed. Rocking.
Bollocks! Gonna walk the road home,
she mutters, and feeds her fare
into the too-fucking-late Red Cross box.

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