Gareth Culshaw

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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. 

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