Only as I reach the bottom of the long slope
and embrace the curved limbs of the bridge,
does it catch me, in the otherwise stillness,
with a sideways swipe, an unexpected blow
to the ribs, a setting-off of sleeping neurons,
and the car staggers erratically, counterwards
for a second, trampling over the regular dash
of lane-lines. Then a rush. Grabbing for the wheel,
I drop everything I was carrying. All those
oversore words rained down in the tired hours,
with the two of us lying, seething, back-to-back,
stop their continuous, murderous looping.
For a moment, no more whispers of a pain
from deep within; no argument with the gods.
Robert Ford‘s poetry has appeared in print and online publications in the UK, US and elsewhere, including The Interpreter’s House, Brittle Star, Butcher’s Dog and San Pedro River Review. More of his work can be found at https://wezzlehead.wordpress.com/