Carefully I parcel them up,
the shreds and remnants,
the shards, now powerless
of all your seething selves.

Warlords are avaricious; they care only for honey.
Houses the beehives on fire; eggs, larvae – all gone.

Everything about her
in thin layers.
The faint beat of her heart.

All the dead unworthy
of a vigil because of
the place where they died

there in this muddled breathing was learnt
takes a paintbrush more than bulging biceps
a fountain pen instead of a saw, hammer, and boards

i didn’t have anything appropriate
to put in a scrapbook
can you see where this is going?

What does it cost, sixteen years old, to fly?
On ground such price for sanctuary, sky.

Free to speak and drink, they guzzled
and yelped until a downpour drove them
inside to keep their powder dry.