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

He leans on the blade to scrape the fat
from the chopping board; then he sharpens
the knives, puts on display choice cuts
of lamb legs; shoulders and necks, plump pink
chickens, liver and kidneys and some masala
fish; whispers bismillah and turns on the till.

Iqbal sips tea, reads the Punjabi Times till
the first customer, who ambles in, places his fat
hands on the counter and asks for two masala
fish and a shoulder of lamb. Iqbal sharpens
the cutting knife, opens the meat to the pink
bone. They talk about Iraq as Iqbal cuts

the flesh into small pieces. He takes the cuts
of fish and puts them in a bag; cashes the till
greets the waiting customers, wipes his pink
hands on his overalls and begins to trim the fat
from a leg of lamb. Nawaz, the mill owner, sharpens
Iqbal’s mind with his political chat. Masala

for your survival is to know your opposition, masala
for the soul is to submit yourself to Allah who cuts
Kaffirs away from heaven. Nawaz sharpens
the tone by questioning suicide bombing, to till
the fields of morality of his small audience of fat
men, who mumble fate, destiny, as a girl in a pink

T-shirt stops near them and they are tickled pink
by her fleshy breasts. The Gorey needs masala
jokes Ahmed the mechanic as his member grows fat
with desire. The other men chip in with lusty cuts
about her ample cleavages, talking in Punjabi till
Iqbal mumbles, what you want luv? The girl sharpens

the atmosphere by replying in Punjabi, which sharpens
the blood in the men’s loins to little blades. Their pink
mouths drop open in unison and there is silence till
Iqbal utters, who learn you Punjabi? I learnt about masala
and Punjabi from my Punjabi girlfriend. He statement cuts
the men’s sausages into chipolatas. Suddenly the fat

men cough. Iqbal sharpens a knife, slices some masala
fish. The girl in pink smiles as he hands her the cuts.
He cashes the till, says goodbye and slips on some fat.