Kate Rhodes
Instantaneous
Until the phone rings
you’ve been stored away,
three polaroids bleached almost to nothing
safe in a shoebox under my bed.
The news of your death sounds invented -
last train home to Brighton, drunk
head out of window to catch the air,
smiling while the dark rushed at you.
There was no time to scream.
Your wife fainted in the corridor,
dreamed of ways to reassemble you.
By now the phone’s fallen
back on its hook. But it’s too late.
Images of you arrive by the carriage load,
flicker past me like a train
that is not scheduled to stop.
Page(s) 53
magazine list
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