This poem is taken from Stand 218, 16(2) May - June 2018.

Pat Marum Four Poems

What they tell us is that they have done enough,
there can be no more, it has to come to an end.

It is time now for the crossing of their palms
with silver, gold. They have put what is left

into the great mounds, behind electric fences.
We are not allowed to be near. I think of

a metallic smell on my hands, insistent,
I think of you

scattered, how I could walk down
the streets and some part of you

could be blowing around me and I would not see it,
catch it. I think of creeping

under the fences that keep me out, with a torch
scrabbling about in the mud, the wet, the mess,

with a shovel, bare hands. I want you so much.
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