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.