Heather Derr-Smith

So Many people jammed into the street she has lost
her breath. A crowd crushes her against a stopped 
tram. Three cracks like a firework set off

& everyone is hunched, crawling for cover. Her dress
is ripped under her arm. Nurijev is behind a minaret.
She can see him, squatting, the flag balled between

his legs. He does not see her. Soon, they’ll be back
in Dubrovnik. With a jerk she is knocked
to the asphalt. Her ribs cave in under her hand.

There are flashes of light strobing from the windows
of the Holiday Inn. They are in the Holiday Inn.
They are shooting at us from the Holiday Inn.
                                                                                          
                                    

Posted 09/07/15

This poem was originally published in Phoebe in 1996 and then in Each End of the World, Main Street Rag Press, 2005.

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