The personal isn’t always the political, but often they intersect, and images from one sometimes help us come to terms with the other.
The thought of you kissing your lover’s chest I consign
to the frigid airspace between the vapour trails
of the plane that brings George Best’s coffin to Belfast
and a CIA ghost-flight, where I will it to fade
like life leaving a body, organ by failing organ,
or the scream of a detainee thrown from the cargo hold
to fall on the parched hills of a puppet regime.