A Short Film

It was not meant to hurt.

It had been made for happy remembering

By people who were still too young

To have learned about memory.

Now it is a dangerous weapon, a time-bomb,

Which is a kind of body-bomb, long-term, too.

Only film, a few frames of you skipping, a few seconds,

You aged about ten there, skipping and still skipping.

Not very clear grey, made out of mist and smudge,

This thing has a fine fuse, less a fuse

Than a wavelength attuned, an electronic detonator

To what lies in your grave inside us.

And how that explosion would hurt

Is not just an idea of horror but a flash of fine sweat

Over the skin-surface, a bracing of nerves

For something that has already happened.