For the mothers left behind with their backs curved
over new moons of boiled potatoes
and white plates laid out in the usual place.
For their sons queuing at the rusting gates;
the unfamiliar rain strips them of their names
and sweeps crumbs off the road home.
For their daughters’ piercing songs
rolling of their tongues, their stories blanched
and another word gone.
For their men crossing
another day off with cheap lager and porn;
an arrhythmic light bulb blows.
For those who wait. A close up of a child’s hand;
fingerprints pouring on the screen.