Your heart goes to the blank black

the pain is radiant

beneath the salt

if only we counted all the dead

/

a face an arm melted onto steel

he wore a shirt

’Women in the kitchen

A gun in every hand’

you watched either way

/

cold steel in my hand

the blood vaporised

it isn’t a hierarchy of victimhood

hand on the gun

roast dinner

roasted flesh

Doesn’t space smell like a barbecue?