Issue Thirty-Two - Summer 2018

There will not be a train

By Rose Mary Boehm

They never saw it coming,
and there is no other transport.
Angels in handcuffs,
wings clipped close to the shoulder blades.
Large suitcases left behind at the border
when you have to carry
your children instead
when they’re shooting at you.
As the angels shed tears
you wonder whether
they cry for the children,
paradise lost or their wings.
The shells keep coming
and the borders are closed.
If they are lucky there will be a tent,
at worst they can hide behind
hedges. If I shut me eyes
I’ll not be seen.
Don’t let them come in.

Copyright Boehm 2018