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Hilary Thomas
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Today, we have this powerfully emotive poem from Hilary Thomas.
Faces of the Bereft
They
shot her in her home as she opened the door
then
went and shot her nephew who slept in his bed.
I
was transfixed to this story in the news today,
No
words could convey the depth of the pain I saw
in
those faces, photos of an aftermath.
The
aftermath of a shooting
Where
mothers and sisters and daughters are left,
Bereft
Women,
dressed in amber hues and royal blue African print
Protrude
against a backdrop of black and white, ink.
Between
the pages of stale adverts, the headlines
And
bylines of stories that pop, and then
Die
as the day progresses, but this,
This
one will surely stain
The
faces of mothers and daughters and sisters left,
Bereft
A
crime scene of a story to freshly unfold.
Outside
on the grass, where shoeless women
Who’s
bodies contort with unimaginable pain, remain.
The
lives of their loved ones taken by hate
The
faces of mothers and sisters and daughters left,
Bereft
So
many photographs, taken by a journalist
Determined,
I guess, to do their bit.
The
windows of an Estate; the building, now barred,
A
solid line of police, their vans and yellow tape.
Their
cold faces and straight backs, give nothing away.
The
crime scene of a double murder, a serious case.
And
the women are begging, perhaps, to see, to touch;
Just
one last embrace.
The
faces of mothers and daughters and sisters left,
Bereft
There’s
a face that stands out, repeats in my mind.
I
imagine her elegance and grace. Yet, it’s deep lines
I
trace as I look at her face; shrivelled by loss,
I
see her strong shoulders sink low, towards her buckled knees.
I
trace her puffed up eyes and mascara stained tears, then
I
surmise; hands in tight fists and arms around her belly pain
Her
belly pain, a mother’s worst nightmare
A
double blow for the sister of the auntie
She
is drenched in death
Drowning
in her innocence
The
faces of mothers and daughters and sisters left,
Bereft
A
crippling affliction has engulfed her today
Like
a hell fire that burns and burns
It
burns, and burns, no mercy no mercy
It
burns into the chill, of the night.
Suffer
the living, the ones that are left
For
they are the ones that are left
bereft
©
Hilary Thomas 2021
Hilary
Thomas is a teacher and writer. She is a student at The City Literary
Institute in London and has contributed her flash fiction to Late
Lines, their monthly spoken word night. She has also written poetry
for UK musician, Alfa Mist’s highly successful 2021 jazz/hip hop album, BringBacks. She is currently working on two debuts: a poetry
anthology and her debut YA fiction novel.
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