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It was not a taser

It was not a taser he brought
but a bright yellow coat that he wore
out of place, breaking the rules of courtesy.

And what he had in his pocket
was yours.
Was yours.
Your 3 piles of gold,
your rumpled little diary my beautiful,
your keys, your passport.

They bled, they bled.

And those words I can't remember
made a tunnel in the air
and out of it a well
a vortex of sighs

for I had not known we were so despised.
He cast your things down
upon the table, and into the well
he threw your clothes and shoes in words
like bursting and hammering and kicking
to incinerate or return their scorned mess
to us,
who love you
however dead,

however dead
and gone.
Our champion,
our laughing deeds,
our shining one.

© Morag Emmerson, November 2007.
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