Gareth Culshaw
Lenthal Street
The bypass went through my ears
engines shattered the mind.
Doors, windows ran like snake scales.
Pavements cracked from heavy syllables.
Two steps up to a wooden door, opening
to a fallow rug. She shuffled as if
keeping things from growing,
dragging her life with each pull of limb.
Water boiled in a pan, the lid nervous.
I wrote my name in the net of glass
that caught her breath. Skin, dust
shredded in the turn of time.
She held the ticking bread, sawing it with
a weakening arm, slices unevenly cut.
Crumbs strewn as first snow.
Then I heard my name fade into her history.
