" title="Brittle Star June English
The Box Factory
I don’t know why I’m here,
dropping this fancy paper on the conveyor belt,
first the left side, then the right, making sure
the glue is evenly spread, before I flip
it over, take a box, centre it, press it down, flip
it towards me, turn it this way,
that way, my fingers deftly folding
the expensive paper, covering the box,
disguising the cheap cardboard,
making it presentable, a saleable commodity,
pink velvet for a single rose, white satin
for a Parker pen.
I don’t know why I’m here,
listening to the piped music belting out
Answer Me, Oh My Love, asking myself
what the hell I’ve done to upset you,
wondering if you’ll forgive me,
working faster, fingers automatically
gluing, twisting, turning, covering
the boxes, until they are stacked
in neat rows waiting to be filled.
I don’t know why I’m here,
breathing in the God-damned awful
smell of glue rising from the conveyor belts,
praying you still love me,
listening to the empty chatter
of a hundred other factory girls,
standing in neat rows preparing, pasting,
covering empty cardboard boxes, slagging
off the bosses, dissecting their latest fling.
I slash cheap lipstick on my dry lips,
clart my face in sun-kissed foundation,
and wonder if my piece-work bonus will stretch
to a white satin Bardot blouse? Something to dress
my wounds, fill me with hope that you
still want to park your pen.
dropping this fancy paper on the conveyor belt,
first the left side, then the right, making sure
the glue is evenly spread, before I flip
it over, take a box, centre it, press it down, flip
it towards me, turn it this way,
that way, my fingers deftly folding
the expensive paper, covering the box,
disguising the cheap cardboard,
making it presentable, a saleable commodity,
pink velvet for a single rose, white satin
for a Parker pen.
I don’t know why I’m here,
listening to the piped music belting out
Answer Me, Oh My Love, asking myself
what the hell I’ve done to upset you,
wondering if you’ll forgive me,
working faster, fingers automatically
gluing, twisting, turning, covering
the boxes, until they are stacked
in neat rows waiting to be filled.
I don’t know why I’m here,
breathing in the God-damned awful
smell of glue rising from the conveyor belts,
praying you still love me,
listening to the empty chatter
of a hundred other factory girls,
standing in neat rows preparing, pasting,
covering empty cardboard boxes, slagging
off the bosses, dissecting their latest fling.
I slash cheap lipstick on my dry lips,
clart my face in sun-kissed foundation,
and wonder if my piece-work bonus will stretch
to a white satin Bardot blouse? Something to dress
my wounds, fill me with hope that you
still want to park your pen.
Page(s) 5-6
magazine list
- Features
- zines
- 10th Muse
- 14
- Acumen
- Agenda
- Ambit
- Angel Exhaust
- ARTEMISpoetry
- Atlas
- Blithe Spirit
- Borderlines
- Brando's hat
- Brittle Star
- Candelabrum
- Cannon's Mouth, The
- Chroma
- Coffee House, The
- Dream Catcher
- Equinox
- Erbacce
- Fabric
- Fire
- Floating Bear, The
- French Literary Review, The
- Frogmore Papers, The
- Global Tapestry
- Grosseteste Review
- Homeless Diamonds
- Interpreter's House, The
- Iota
- Journal, The
- Lamport Court
- London Magazine, The
- Magma
- Matchbox
- Matter
- Modern Poetry in Translation
- Monkey Kettle
- Moodswing
- Neon Highway
- New Welsh Review
- North, The
- Oasis
- Obsessed with pipework
- Orbis
- Oxford Poetry
- Painted, spoken
- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
- Poetry Cornwall
- Poetry London
- Poetry London (1951)
- Poetry Nation
- Poetry Review, The
- Poetry Salzburg Review
- Poetry Scotland
- Poetry Wales
- Private Tutor
- Purple Patch
- Quarto
- Rain Dog
- Reach Poetry
- Review, The
- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
- Seventh Quarry, The
- Shearsman
- Smiths Knoll
- Smoke
- South
- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
- Tolling Elves
- Ugly Tree, The
- Weyfarers
- Wolf, The
- Yellow Crane, The