Berlin, 30th April, 1945
She takes another long drag on her cigarette,
blowing the smoke over her smouldering lips.
Everywhere else is burning – why shouldn’t she?
He always hated the habit anyway.
She’ll kick his dog, for good measure,
on her way back inside.
Standing now, she feels her feet sinking
into the sponge of grass. The blades lick her ankles
as if she were greater than God herself.
She imagines she’s far away, a garden somewhere -
Munich maybe, back when she was seventeen.
The knots of her fists uncoil - her fingers too short for nooses.
She pictures the rows of tulips. Acid yellows and reds;
beckoning capsules, sleeping in the pill-box of the flower beds.
She sighs. The routine’s been done twice over already.
She slipped up the first two times. Is it really third time lucky?
Maybe, as it’s a duet, things will run smoothly – though he’ll
make a song and dance over it, as he does everything.
But for this one moment nothing is real. Nothing ever was.
It’s just the burning blue sky putting the ‘cyan’ in cyanide.