Watching mothers of knife crime victims on TV
A broken bone in my back jogs downwards occasionally,
as I watch mothers of knife crime victims on TV,
wishing I could say our pain is the same,
as birds sing outside on the slate.
Is pain equally dealt? My only pain can be
held in place with a careful hand, and will
go away, while theirs can never be healed,
lives ended with children’s deaths
after a game of chess, then Russian roulette,
a fight-to-the-death, with weapons of choice,
and later, a mother standing over,
her song forever silenced.