The water wind rolls down the mountain waves.
The day’s forgotten wash fights it bravely, like a bull.
Out side, a bomb-less war of flashes and blows.
Inside, chicken and corn, my bored head hanging
over late homework, while Mama stirs the soup,
Humming to herself, and the babe watches
the kamikaze rain splatter over the window pane,
Andrea hugging her battered doll,
sucking her thumb, furiously.
‘It’s alright, child,’ Mama chants, undecided,
between thyme, celeriac or parsley, the beads
Of the rosary gleaming, as she rolls them
Incessantly around her left hand.