“My whole mad existence” Hangs on but just one thread. A boiling cauldron underneath. And I’m explosive. I’d seen threads severed…

“My whole mad existence”
 Hangs on but just one thread.
 A boiling cauldron underneath.
 And I’m explosive.
 
 I’d seen threads severed,
 cauldrons exploding;
 I’d seen devastation, fire, murder,
 total destruction.
 
 Once upon a time, it was a fairyland.
 There were no cauldrons nor explosives;
 or so we thought.
 Cosy after-dinner discussions on
 Bangladesh, Vietnam, Kampuchea, Afghanistan.
 
 Earlier still, My Dear Menik,
 We played together, laughed and cried.
 Do you remember the day I promised to marry you?
 I was three; you four.
 
 Menik Dearest!
 Where is that wonderland?
 Who broke our dialogue?
 Why can’t we be friends any longer?
 
 I cannot dream of you, of your face,
 For nightmares interrupt:
 Burning houses, boots on gravel, machine gun fire.
 My insides curl; spine chills.
 Your face is a blur, not as radiant as it used to be.
 Where did we go wrong?

• 14 February 1986