A Passport

Dust, fine as talc om powder floats down in the air. Windows begin there dance as they crack while the walls groan as if giving birth. Feint in the distance. Explosions. Discernible if but barley. One wall miscarries it's books. Rifling through the box hidden away just for this moment, we all knew would come, unprepared. Fantine takes Jean by the hand. Gathering up the twins, Rigor has not yet stiffened Capucine. Unable to carry her to. Knowing we may never see her again, the sounds growing dangerously closer. Hurriedly, I gently remove her full swollen breasts and as the twins are always hungry each scurry towards a nipple. With their clenched fists and biting mouths. As the passports are tucked safely away. Left thus with each dripping and splayed perhaps I pray that the soldiers will not do it again, when they come. We were one pass short of the bay today.