Karen J. McDonnell

Shell Gathering

Coming home from the funeral
we stop in the hot day
for ice-cream at Crusheen.

The sun hammers down.
A day for the beach and shell gathering.
No weather for heat-seeking black.

Out on the Mare Nostrum, an Israeli eye
scans a Gaza beach
where children play football.

A held breath.
A lining up of crosshairs.
Slight pressure on the fingerpad.

The air shivers, but the sea remains calm.

Berlin. May Day. 1945

Magda Goebbels, having killed her children,
steps into the room and lays out her cards.
She brushes a blonde wisp from her forehead
and begins a game of Patience. It is hard

to fathom what she contemplates. Queen on King.
Her hands wage war with colour. Red upon Black.
Magda thinks of tooth fairies. She is hearing
small teeth rasp as the glass capsules crack.

Out in the cold Berlin morning she stands.
She swallows cyanide drenched in their names.
Her thoughts are drowning in snapshots and
home-movies spliced into split-second frames.

She clasps Hedda’s milk tooth — a final treasure.
Magda’s husband shoots her — for good measure.

Shells whoosh in, shredding the children.
And their fathers run, to gather them in.