– not a number you associate with
The age of the dead. Four hundred – not a
Measure of kilometres you think of as lying
Ahead. Hundreds of thousands – an amount
That exceeds the space in my mind, so many
Hearts beating that when one of them burst, even
Its silence seems impossible to find. How do we
Claim to think of ourselves as one, a number
So invisible that we may never know its kind.
How will we account for fares unrefunded,
Trains unboarded, homes unreached, the lives
Discounted, the peace unbreathed, the pity
Unspoken. One, a number divisible only by itself
On every step of every long march home
Lies broken.