She walks across the ticket hall
draped in black, clutching a framed photograph
Llke a shield.
The son who never came home
smiles at strangers as if from a window
shut in her heart.
She ascends to the light,
bearing her mausoleum of silence,
walks to where the mourners stand.
There’s a place somewhere near the kerb
where he stood - guns with
the small dark mouths of birds, aiming.
Every day she sees the hand that held the gun,
severed and alone
smaller than her son’s, perhaps
Buttoning a shirt, turning a lock,
steering a wheel, lifting a cup,
holding a hand, waving.
She imagines fingers unhinging,
selecting a spoon.
The injustice of stirring tea.
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