Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

Why, my dear friend, were you being executed?
We knew the executioner, but all the same, who was he?
Why was I there? And in that last respite,
before the coup de grâce,
what did we speak of?
I have forgotten.

He tried to get you used to it — the roar,
the rush of air, the burning powder,
with demonstration shots, angled to pass
closer and closer. And you sat
at the table, inattentive, absent.
And in between his efforts to familiarise you with
the manner of your death, we chatted
fitfully, casually as ever
(as though I had been detailed somehow to distract you);
yet so full of charm, even of wisdom, was our talk,
the landscape of our life was reconstructed by it,
though I, impatient, wanted to find stronger stuff.
Did we have time to talk of trivialities?
He gave us time.
And glancing in your face, I saw
the contours soften, and the eyes
grow large, till finally
(I can’t remember if it was before or after this)
he put the revolver up against your chest.
Another practice shot? Suddenly I saw
this was for real. I knew
the bullet would traverse your heart
in a diagonal, somehow
a more professional death! I couldn’t bear to watch.
I rose, went to the window, turned my face away. At once
your death appeared so pitiful, I was afraid
that you would see it so. Sickened
by my own cowardice, and urgently
compassionate now, I turned around
expecting to be witness of
your violent end! But no.
The executioner withdrew the gun.
And taking advantage of this stay of execution,
we walked together to the window.
Again we talked . . .