Susan Wicks
Cry
You would have to be alone, walking
in a wood at dusk, the silence
sifted through needles, trapped
in a mesh of roots. You would have to
imagine you could hear footsteps
where no footsteps were possible,
knowing the track unmarked
by any sign. There would have to be
space, birches in a sudden circle,
for the pale actors to step forward
with their loop of rope, the tumbril,
its bloody pulp of fingers
gripping the splintered tail-gate
and gone. And when the dark mouth opened
on that litany of places
where she’d been fleeced and robbed,
that rush of venom ending
with some lurch towards a scaffold
as the birds flew up – her cry
would be your cry, the trees’ startled vibration
yours, the sound of clapping
your own discreet applause
as the small procession left you and trooped off
into shadow. You’d have to
ask yourself where they’d come from
and who she was, and whether
a reprieve was still to be hoped for –
if the forest had truly opened
its folds of moss – and whether
the two of you might have been lovers
in other times or places –
if you had ever made promises
to hear her out, and go with her.
in a wood at dusk, the silence
sifted through needles, trapped
in a mesh of roots. You would have to
imagine you could hear footsteps
where no footsteps were possible,
knowing the track unmarked
by any sign. There would have to be
space, birches in a sudden circle,
for the pale actors to step forward
with their loop of rope, the tumbril,
its bloody pulp of fingers
gripping the splintered tail-gate
and gone. And when the dark mouth opened
on that litany of places
where she’d been fleeced and robbed,
that rush of venom ending
with some lurch towards a scaffold
as the birds flew up – her cry
would be your cry, the trees’ startled vibration
yours, the sound of clapping
your own discreet applause
as the small procession left you and trooped off
into shadow. You’d have to
ask yourself where they’d come from
and who she was, and whether
a reprieve was still to be hoped for –
if the forest had truly opened
its folds of moss – and whether
the two of you might have been lovers
in other times or places –
if you had ever made promises
to hear her out, and go with her.
Page(s) 9
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