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

No good asking her what she thinks -
she’s said too much already.  Her lips bleed
at the centre of the photograph, where
she’s been arranged, surrounded by the living,
who josh and elbow to get their picture taken,
these dozen lads excused from war today.
One soldier winks.  One’s just combed his hair.
One’s got bad teeth, is grinning anyway.
Someone gestures for the camera with his gun.

She’s expressionless.  Hard to tell her age.
Dirty dress.  She’s whitewashed out - could be anyone.
Someone’s lent an army tunic, and it’s half pulled off
to show her bare neck for the photograph,
the soft round of one shoulder perfectly exposed.

And the men don’t wear a proper uniform, except
the GI centre back, with thoughtful cigarette,
who’s staring straight at us, not them, direct
from liberated Paris, or anywhere.

Not in this picture:  babies, tight-lipped grandmother;
and much earlier, hungry as a lover,
Jean-Claude at his handset, unpacked nightly
from behind loose bricks in her kitchen wall.
She’d lie awake, rehearsing innocence like beads:
barks and footsteps, coded knocking,
urgent German - each sound expected and unbearable.

From beyond the frame an arm is reaching in
to help her raise the heavy caption
whitewashed on a torn-off piece of cardboard box.
They didn’t have to hang it round her neck.
Hand angled for the light to catch her wedding ring,
she carries it herself:  She got her husband shot.

No point asking what, outside the picture,
her plans are for the future, or which lot
it was who shaved off all her hair:
she looks as if the cat has got her tongue.