In the book I am reading,
a girl turns terrorist
and her mother flees
to South America
to hide and mourn,
run away from herself.
Guilt is scratched
into her every speech,
the kind of nonsense
crowds of strangers
or acquaintances produce,
but her stories change,
as do the names of the people
no-one she talks to knows.
She fills a void with chit-chat
that cannot stop the bomb
exploding with her daughter,
who made it and took it
to where the most people
would die. And they did
and the talking goes on,
not covering up the blood
or screams, the photos
shown on the news
we watched earlier tonight.

© Rupert M Loydell


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