My bones took an unexpected turn that day in Derry.
First it was a subtle pinch,
followed by an aching thump,
and finally I melted in a puddle next to my broken heart.
Stories of remorse, regret, terror and shame.
How can one tiny place hold so much bleakness
in the folds of a centuries-old memory?
I wonder
Does that little girl
in her pink leopard print
feel the impact of her city's black and white-ness
it's us or them-ness?
Does her education these days involve lessons of
No Surrender or Trial by Fire?
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