Holding Hands

 

They start with the car. Some Red Hand crowd
that brays for blood, clenches knuckles
that crunch for lack of calcium and substance,
they crawl down the road, youth
inebriated and high on their buzzword of hate.

He stands guard, her toy boy,
sports man like, proud in a bright orange jacket,
ushers people through to the moonlit backyard.
They were having a party here. No more.
Now only this indenture of fists on flesh.

His friend is sentry of the stairs. Perhaps,
he perceives a splintered bottle in one’s hand:
the glass flowering out like a bomb blast.
Her boyfriend shows people through still,
even amongst all this commotion.

They might be evacuees of any warzone.
She was hurt, purpled by the pummelling
of fists in the first moments of the fight,
but battled on. He sees her safe into the garden,
one of the last escapees. The Catholics are safe.

He goes back in, fights on to rescue his friend
whose cut in red ribbons of blood now,
brighter than any sash. She thumbs
her cross’s gold agonized Jesus, counts seconds
until he places his Protestant hand in her hand.