Suicide Bomber
by Michael Brett

(London, my home, was attacked by suicide bombers on 7.7.05)

I became a Buckingham Palace guide for death.

I timed my transformation to the instant (8.51)

I climbed aboard a Piccadilly Line train.

Look, admire death's portraits and its corridors.

Over its flowers I would rearrange the flowers of yourselves

In the vases of your bodies.

My bones were an embroidery of the air.

This was no loss of life but a culmination.

My body was a set of mosaic pieces destined for this instant.

My violence, a kind of art, a dream language, like music

Something scribbled in the surprised air.

When it subsided-my ragged portrait-

The police and the army were my tourists.

They entered, looked around, took photographs

And spoke in hushed tones.

I had blessed the train with reverence.

I was the man with no head and a bar of chocolate.

Copyright © 2009 - Michael Brett
Published: 12/10/09   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem