With each drag the man’s sleeve shifts
to show dark skin, pitted with deep
white scars; bowls of cooled craters hot
with old pain. I think of Helen.

She had skin like silk, softly tanned
by the summer of ’76
with fine, fair hairs that melted first,
curling crisp in the glowing heat .

I ask the interpreter about
the scars. “Self inflicted”. She said.
“It’s not uncommon, the pain blinds,
briefly, the mind’s eye.”

It started with a pound note, a
match and a crumpled cigarette .
I didn’t smoke so her fag felt
awkward between my finger and thumb.

It was her idea. The trick
was to wrap the note around her
slender wrist, drag on the fag and
burn a hole before she fainted.

‘He says they made him watch her die.
Held her high on a bayonet.
Passing her one to the other
Laughing, laughing, laughing, laughing.”