From the early pulse of Teesside Solidarity Movement.
I want to bomb my dead neighbour’s house. I want to watch the fireball take out the first floor like the Twin Towers and make a noise that starts a war. It’s not like that – really. My mum told me, “Ron’s dead”. Ron – who put up the shelves which carried my books, which carried me on their rough spines far out on rough seas from my little square estate. The shape of my grief is flat and solid and still holds, like the shelf in my old bedroom. “She’ll have to go, his wife”, my mum tells me. “She can’t pay the bedroom tax”. So I’m going to bomb the house, I’m going to make a wreath of rainbow dust out of the one room too many which Ron left behind – along with his wife. So that the shape of her grief, is a volcano – something graceful and burning – to mark their love with dignity. So that the shape of her grief is not just an empty room pushing her out into the street. I’ll blow the fucker to smithereens and hope the sound of grief is loud enough to start a war.
By Carmen Thompson