by Jenny Mitchell
A cigarette. A tea-light. A mother
down the shops. Two sets of twins
left in a house, fire spreading fast
over rubbish on the floor.
Do the social workers know?
Rubbish on the floor. A cigarette.
A tea-light. Smoke chasing boys
through rooms, until they hide
beneath a bed, hold each other
in their arms – everlasting sleep.
Firemen put out the flames,
not with water but their tears.
A mother in the courtroom,
wearing her headphones – Burn,
baby, burn – demands a cigarette.
