from around the cinema hall.
Twelve --the girl was not quite dead
one tore the golden chain from her breast
still unripe and hit where it hurts the most
while she tried to save her brother
a child asthamtic, often on ventilator
dying of asphyxiation crushed and underneath
adult boots hurrying to the solitary 6 x 2 exit
while they ripped the diamond off her nose
in the liquid carbonmonoxide gloam
the glittering dewdrops from her shell-like ear lobes
used to whispers of undying love,
hurling obscenities.
Later much later at home
frozen on a slab of ice in an airconditioned room
she and her brother dressed in new clothes
midst flowers, incense, incantiations, icons
she did not bat her half-closed eyelid
as they filed past in designer outfits
debating vigorously who died first
the boy or the girl
of gas or boots -- exactly what?
Vultures all. They.
And I writing
this poem.