Falling

Mosquito season. Ankles itching,

I saw as the boy
two weeks shy of six years old
hurtled from the bench, forehead first

a tiny, stupid comet
out of eyeline, his
face-mopping, pregnant mother
busy with another
baby brother.

His feet skittered at the edge
like stones at a cliff-face
when nesting birds are disturbed

and I’m thinking I’ll write that
he looked like a domino; pause. Topple. No time
for my intervention (the writer already
saving the image for writing. Sorry little

Brother – I’ve clocked off babysitting.)

The wailing starts.
The boy holds out sticky hands,

the woman wraps him up
and I think
some fallen have a soft landing.

Boys in Mecca,
where are your mothers now?

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About fiercemissc

Twenty-something Geordie girl living and working in Hong Kong. Young, free and single and making the most of it.
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