It’s not like before. She knows it’s not
at night, the air silent and tomb cool.
Each Friday, they walk hand in dry palm hand,
lethargically to synagogue through streets unoccupied
houses all set far apart.
She never hears the neighbours now
he has a good job – children will come – just like they dreamed.
Still, sometimes she sees the armoured van outside the bank
the unbalance of the holstered hip of the guard out the front.
Weighted by steel and leather
she misses home.
eleanor j jackson 