You Don'tA Chapter by Sel Whiteley
Though you see your people
teenagers slaughtered as terrorists
numb to the scorch of lead in their flesh
and despite the white flags
and the Geneva Convention
they are deserving of death.
And when you see your brother,
a sixteen year old school boy,
unarmed but shot dead by the corner shop
you do not mourn his loss
nor do you wake crying
at night for two decades or call for him
across all those void, white years.
Certainly, the toddler
who hid beneath the duvet,
cuddled up against his father’s chest
as his father screamed:
please God, don’t shoot my child
was a Republican terrorist
and a threat to national security.
And when your own father-
interned and imprisoned,
his nails pulled out by tweezers
from his trembling hands
until he paced the house
forever at the height of complete
and terrified psychosis
and all you remember of childhood
is his madness and tanks
you definitely don’t feel it
and you don’t sail scared
across the Irish sea at fourteen.
© 2017 Sel Whiteley |
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