For Idil Ibrahim
In memory of Tim Hetherington - 1970 - 2011

I cannot stay and speak my truth while the front line has no voice.
The carpet doesn't share substance with the blood-clumped
dust of Liberia; Red wine doesn't stain nations and it hasn't
changed the world.

I cannot stay and walk these steps while the fragile youth stand.
Our Sunday morning route doesn't cover landscapes of wounds
and bodies; Central Park has never felt a thousand welted
feet march for death.

I cannot stay and see your face while molten plastic scars her world.
Your delicate eyes have never seen the darkness of a child's grief;
Our democracy cannot fathom the searing, slow drip after a family
massacred.

I cannot stay and feel worthy of your love while injustice goes unseen.
My lens has immortalised what we held dear, but is yet to capture
the human condition; I spoke to you like I spoke to them;
Through decades of mortar fire I spoke to them.

I wouldn't like to be a naiad
Unless I could swim through dirt
Then when you ceased to breathe,
I'd rest beside your corpse in earth.
I wouldn't like to be a dolly.
My heart filled with needles and pins.
Every time you near me,
They always sink further in.
I wouldn't like to be a shadow.
Unless I was cast in your light.
So that I may be with you,
Even in the darkest night.
I wouldn't mind being a kiss.
I don't quite make the cut.
How can two lips join,
If one set is sewn shut?