A rope of black smoke
above the city. Police sirens. The feet
of the crowd over pavement.
We don’t know who she is: barely
a year alive, her blue leggings wet, stuck
to the skin with her own blood.
Doc Johnson holds her head
like an orange in his open hand. He kneels
beside the white Opel while Kenson aims
the mounted light from his M4
through the shattered window to her face,
the glass spread around her