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

Her face like a doll’s, an elegant porcelain doll
not for playing with. Cropped hair,
round eyes, neat rosebud mouth – each feature

could be painted on. In her chic suit she stands
on the edge, alert as a bird, missing
nothing, breaking our reticence

briskly. I always say, she declares, exactly
what I think –with the scorn of youth
that there could ever be kindness in anything less.

How she parades independence, holds it
sacred! She is always girding her narrow loins
for battle. And she has no time for fools,

is strong and clear as glass held up to reflect
what she most desires, the approval
of a brilliant man. Her lover – she talks of him

and her fear of his love with such passion,
as if it might tarnish his brightness. We see
two suns hanging side by side, sparks flying …

Then meet him, this paragon, writer – philosopher
extraordinaire. Slight, stooped, yellow
protruding teeth, a caricature. And she –

straight from a Sunday spent sweeping his rooms,
clearing his cupboards of rotten food – she
is all doe’s eyes. That love, the older ones murmur

along the tables, is destined to bring
unhappiness. Have you seen the way she looks
at him? There is tragedy, if you like.

Past midnight, the waiters still hover
softly applauding the singing. After our choruses
he adds one verse alone, unabashed, the thin reed

of his voice just true, one hand on his glass,
the other gripping her hand. Her arm lies
across the cloth, the sleeve slipped back.

Like a doll, rare, not for playing with,
eminently breakable. Already her skin’s
white glaze is spidered with hairline cracks.