Her skin was Pokemon yellow but
nobody looked for the monster in her –
the florists daughter retching from her ointment
cared not if the fire was Russian or Brexit European
flames hurt wherever they are forged and baptised from.
The furious doctor has not slept for eleven Iraqi nights
he is shaking so violently yet gently injects Shoab and
tonight in penicillin dreams Shoab may walk again, walk
to his Mother and see a red scarf leave her mouth
and strike her down where she tucked him in.
It is time to look for Pokemon in wartime.
For three seconds the woman soldier opens fire.
She is a woman soldier and last night was a mere child.
For three minutes her Father was a florist of wounds and cyclamen
laid it on her grave, her womanly bones. All they found was a monster.