On the killing of the Imam

 

Monday morning I remember

I went to bed knowing

They kill the holy here.

I went to bed knowing

I cannot hollow myself empty

I will live longer than the Imam.

I begin a new week with fresh fury I will nuture

So that I cannot forget that death is an intimate neighbour

Even in a world full of delights.

In the year 2025

Martyrs are mourned on a Sunday.

On Sunday I went to bed knowing

I will need to find another way to live with a fresh heartbreak

Even if the death feels so far away.

Monday morning I remember 

To begin at the altar.

One candle burning quietly

As I read the prayer of St Francis

Listening to the quiet of a heaving world.

When I leave the altar I can only write a poem

To carry me through the day

So I can make it to the train on time.