Sonnet, 8.00am

A mother sows tears at a railway station,
Mourning a son
who didn’t make it out of a country
Mourning a son
who did make it out of a country
but can’t make it into a railway station.
Tears squeeze though irrigation channels,
whetting international media.

I drink saltwater tea
take my news breakfast
sit in the middle of toasty debris
(what the young mouth jammers left behind).
All quiet in the living room
as families move through fields.

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