i remember the nights
that my home set itself alight
along with the rest of the nation,
in rage at ashen-faced foster parents
open window, gasp for breath
and there was only smoke.
though it was not enough to live on,
it quelled the hunger for a while
and we smiled
as one, hands held in this hell
while the father we never asked for
let us poison ourselves
on the gifts brought back from holiday
three days too late
to find an urn
in the blank space once held
by a hospital bed,
now lying broken in a skip,
all cinders, rags,
no riches —
but the stitches at
least are removed,
as gone as everything else.