Terminal

It's the waiting that gets you -
the standing in columns
like a queue of wooden posts.
It's the stench of sweat, trapped
beneath hairs, trapped
beneath woollen vests and thick,
grey shawls.
It's the muttered imprecations,
the clearing of throats;

the acres of time left wordless.

In Petropavlovsk,
women emerged to watch the drudge-chains
of bent-backed men
marching in line towards train carriages
marked 'Bread' or 'Moscow
Cutlets'. Each truck was ribboned
in barbed wire.
The women tossed loaves,
potatoes, mittens.
They booed the guards until the great doors
rolled shut,
ready for departure.

The queue shuffles forward.
A lofted hunk of bread
soars from nowhere,
strikes me on the cheek.
It's damp,
like a farewell kiss.