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
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?