Peter Carpenter
To Bits
They reeked, her fingertips,
of shallots she’d picked
and peeled, then sliced.
It had been two days
and two whole nights.
In those indefinable
early hours the last train
would come to a stop
but their kissing still went
round and round in her head:
where it had left them both,
the picture of her car,
motionless, astride
yellow lines, a reminder
of how laws change at night.
This was the end of the line.
She went over it: I love him
to bits, love him to bits...
The sharp little blade
steadied, worked into ring
after ring after ring.
Page(s) 8
magazine list
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