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

Unwanted as an elderly employee who’s slowed down,
the car’s been bumped over the brook in the park, stripped
of identity on the gravel under the viaduct

and abandoned by an owner who couldn’t care less
that he’s torn willow leaves, calm,
in his itch to turn the key in a faster model.

Every day I see how irresistible helplessness is,
wince at the wrenched wheel lying
like a lost foot. Nearby, spattered with dust,

the lopsided body peers through a ragged gap
and from the ground a hail of glass protests sharply.
Soon the felt carpet is rucked and fuzzed

as if by a factory of mice. I wonder if a fisted hand
walloped the back of the plastic baby chair
until it broke, if it was satisfying to knife the upholstery,

chuck condoms from the passenger window.
One sultry day I find the car burnt to death, its sides
unfleshed, the seats skeletal juts, the last shreds

of dignity snatched from the steering wheel,
the crown of the head rubbed gold
with rust. The air is still acrid with the smut of words

and I can smell the hot desire to destroy,
see how it ballooned as orange tongues licked
with fervour until fire gripped the mute frame. The murder

roaring in my ears threatens to swallow the energy
that cooks a meal, offers kindness, plans a bridge,
begins processes in the quiet of a womb, egg, cocoon,

which culminate in the black butterfly I’ve just seen
in the copse, the red squares across its wings,
the rook on this tar-stained path, its beak tugging

at a paper bag full of bread, myself unravelling thoughts,
and the must insistent as the heart’s pump, as breath
that pushes us through pain, through loss.