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

6th August 1943

Mary B. was going on about it in Dooley's snug -
the latest thing, she said, with Hollywood's finest,
drooling about that German, what's his name.
I told her she'd be better seeing to her family and feeding her man,
he looks half-starved when he comes in.
But on she went, mouthing about cigarettes
and wanting the moon and some such.
I thought I might just go and see it, sure what harm?

So I found myself snug in the back of the Plaza one-bobs.
Maire was minding the kids, Pat off somewhere.
There was that Betty Davis looking fierce drab,
and the ocean liner and the handsome man,
and the way he lit the cigarettes, two at a time.
It gave me a start, how he handed it to her,
lit, straight from his lips, gentle
like it was the rarest gift he could offer.

That's just what Sean did after that Dublin hop,
when he walked me home and we stopped
on the corner of Belgrave Square.
"Do you want a smoke?" he asked.
I, never one to admit, said "I do"
and he lit up, held it between his lips,
I could see the red glow of the tip in the dark.
Then he handed it to me, slow like, and I took it in a dream,

as if there was nothing else in the world but that cigarette.
I placed it between my lips and I took a breath in,
as I'd seen my brothers do.
I felt my lungs close over like I was deep in water
and going under for the third time.
I coughed and coughed and he laughed so hard
I thought he'd split himself "Take it slow," he said,
so I tried again, this time breathing easier,

in and out,
in and out,
and I felt light,
like I fitted into the highheeled
shoes I was wearing.