The worst was not the sudden swell of people

flooding round the corner,

wide eyes jolting past. Or the shrieks,

a voice, sexless,

The last word amplifying
as my mother seized my arm and we plunged
into the stumbling, stuttering crowd,

blind to the NO EXIT signs.

Or the rush into the tunnels,

thin voices throwing questions,

answers smothered between bodies.

Fear flickering in my stomach

like a red light flashing.

Or the huddled want

to cry, or hating myself for it.

Not my mother's grin
as we sailed the escalator,

saying We were there as though we’d found ourselves

in a cutting-edge documentary on

The Realities Of London Life.

The worse was my first still thought,

rising from panic like the light

at the top of the escalator.

That I would call you, and let your sympathetic sounds

calm the running in my mind,

softly grasp a wrist

and let the gun drop to the ground.