From Chariots by Dominic Cuthbert A double-decker bus, The rusted metal panels hide faulty components, It lets diesel smoke from the exhaust pipe And out onto the pavement. People inhale it The way they would with cigarettes When someone else is smoking. I'm sat on the back seat, facing sideways and inwards, Attempting to impress a dancer. She's wearing leg warmers that reach her knees And she holds her ballet shoes in a fist. The pink ribbons wrap around each finger And across her knuckles. There are hoops in her ear – two the size of bottle tops, The others like medallions. The metal is a cheap nickel that, in my own lobe, Might make the flesh swell. Towards the end of the bus route is a village, It is gray and mournful. I was raised here. I never noticed the veils pinned to pill box hats. The churchyard seemed smaller When I played hide and seek in it. I stand here in adulthood and notice The lay of the land, the geography, And the ornamentation that loved ones left On each grave stone. |
One Day I Saw The Sunset Forty-four Times
by Lev Ani |