By Katherine Heneghan.
We force creaking guillotines apart
but hold on to our heads
for this, a snapshot in Spring
window opening, or roof blown off
whichever comes first
A crescent moon
a baby’s mobile
hangs over the portable
Drawings of ice shelves
that, like eighteenth century ball goers
throw up their hands and
faint into the sea
We swipe at the moment
with cracked phone screens
Huddle together
for photos we pretend
aren’t important
But will carefully peruse
years from now
on beds and sofas
made of timber
Pigment drains from the sky
shiny-faced troops wait to deploy
We eat Lebanese sweets
wait for the migraine-shaped bell
to ring
Then leave
coffin quiet classroom
asbestos sheet walls
