All the bombs – poor men wiring cars,
strapped up on trains, underground,
homing in on metal, noise, cramped
closeness of midday bustle, naive sweat.
Somewhere else: piped music
from an old radio and the police
slamming another bomb to the ground,
twenty years before he’s due
to detonate. Guards shooting at bombs
and landlords stuffing letters
aggressively through their doors.
Having the book thrown at them,
hit and impact. And some bombs
quietly detonating on their own
in deserted yards or empty rooms.
Or pressing semtex hands into others.
Feeling the ugly matte of wires. Feeling
the clocks ticking down under the arches
and the columns of their chests.
Joanna Hollins studied MA Poetry at UEA, and is published in the 2016 UEA MA Creative Writing Anthology