Poetry Archives

Death stepped out of the television 
just long enough to catch us off guard
and we mill around a crematorium’s lawns.
‘I saw her on Friday, now she’s gone.’
The women cry and hug men
shuddering at the taste of ashes.
A smile between friends: it could have
been you and me last summer in the accident.
We were suitably dressed, even the sky was grey.
We, bull ants, terrified of sadistic feet
on a footpath curse the gods look in the other’s
eyes then look beyond to the feet.
The keepers of the place tell us to hurry
along make space for the incoming cars.
They can’t care, it’s a living to them
but our hearts turn against black-hearted fate.
We kick the backs of each other’s shoes
and hands in pockets, shuffle back to our cars.
Suddenly, her blonde hair, her face.