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Pauline Suett Barbieri

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Ford Malibu

It was there for more than thirty years,
at the back of the drawer.
A tag. Scratched plastic, said
'Trenton' and something else.
Worn out.  Probably 'New Jersey'.
Its car was yellow on the outside.
Black interior.

It held us as secure as a leather
glove belonging to the Mafia. Held us
locked in and down that street in
New York. That night at midnight
at the end of your shift. Not far
from the Chinese restaurant where
Hopper would sit on a wooden bench
with noodles. Opposite me
and my friend, wearing hats. Mine
was an emerald green Stetson with
a black tie. And hers? I can't remember.

But I remember being locked in
your yellow car in that dark street
and the gang of rats with shiny coats
and bright chalky eyes ready
to blackboard death, who had followed you
from the morgue, circled your car,
looking for scraps.

Then the pathologist in you
opened the door to death, in defiance.

Life, the only weapon in your hands
challenging silver knives
slashing windows, sparking like those
the old man sharpened on his wheel
in our street, on Sundays. And their teeth
jagging the night, snarling, hissing
at your Hollywood bravado.

The car and me turning
a lighter shade of pale beneath
the projectionist's faltering lamp.
My screams held you back.
I was not ready to lose you.
You pulled away from the kerb
into another shot but
nobody yelled 'Cut'.

 

Pauline Suett Barbieri was shortlisted for the Exeter Poetry Prize in 1998 and 1999, is published in Oasis, Acumen and Tears in the Fence, with a broadsheet due from Oasis in February 2002.

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