Cries from blocks of houses,
indistinct,
could be any of them
walled by fences,
then screams that pitch high and
the fall away as the night
takes hold,
voices echoing a tension
too hard to hear.

Then silence as the knife falls,
and another one,
another one,
a number to add
to numbers.

Flashing lights,
sirens,
muffled voices
in the dark.
watching, waiting,
in the most fascinating
part of the day.

And shadows on the bodybag,
black with the night,
with death,
and they say he fled the scene,
and it’s happened again.

TV crews.
Cameras lights.
Morning news at break of day.

All in a street with fences,
trees, comfortable,
middle class,
where families live,
where women die.

 

24/4/2023