I bring bombs into my house

in the palm of my hand.

I watch a flipflopped child

carrying an empty bucket

pick his way through rubble.

I bring in holes the size of other homes.

I bring barefoot teenagers into my house.

One with blood streaming

from her eyes, another snatching at the buttons

of his shirt as if it were on fire.

Silent, bandaged teenagers, held up like offerings.

I carry women screaming from room to room.

I bring bodies into my house.

Bodies on trolleys. On tarpaulin.

In cots.

Skeletal, propped up in the dust.

And I let soldiers in.

Laughing soldiers shooting crowds.

Then I switch them all off.

Ben Verinder