trainwreck

Worlds away in the grey
harbours of St Nazaire, I saw railway tracks
embedded in dockyard walls,

where the concrete was called
to arms
while human shields
and sister structures

were smashed to dust.

My grandfather wore his medals
embedded in his chest.

Having outlived the organic,
the gaping maw of metal is
stopped mid-scream,
mistaking me for a soldier

with my trigger-happy finger
ready to expose
more horror
onto Instagram.

And I freeze, then,
reminded of Fed Square
yawning at the sun
10,000 miles away,

its visitors oozing
a thick tourism blood
into the streets, where our
concrete and tar carry it in veins of

King, William,
Queen, Elizabeth.

So I travel back there,
back home,
to my other invaded blood-city

which has more carefully misplaced
its history
in so short a time.

Where is the memory of conflict,
that tired one-way ticket,
the message which should be
plain for all to see,

as it is in the railway tracks of St Nazaire,
whose docks you still can’t catch a train
to Tullamarine
to do so?

-- originally posted at http://migueljacq.com/2014/01/27/trai...