From the black tower, honeycomb
tomb, empty windows stare at us
like charred eye sockets. What did this?
A fridge wanted to be a stove
and flung the oven door open
to hell. The fire squirrelled upwards,
sideways. It must have roared and raged
around you. We saw you waving,
screaming from windows. Told to stay,
you either choked to death on smoke
or roasted alive in your rooms.
The tallest ladders in the city
couldn’t reach you. Now smoke’s no longer
pullulating, we can see clearly.
Far, near, glossy towers stand
clad in combustibles that went up
like a flare in the night. Grenfell,
your warped façade’s the melted-off
face of our illusions. We thought
we lived in a different country.
by Mark Kirkbride
Bio
Mark Kirkbride lives in Shepperton, England. His debut novel Satan’s Fan Club is published by Omnium Gatherum. His short stories can be found in Under the Bed and Sci Phi Journal. His poetry has appeared in the Big Issue, the Morning Star, the Mirror and HWA chapbooks.