The Sound of Ford Anglia
I came from the black garage of your memory. I drove into your yard. You were soot and mud,
I didn’t recognise you. That’s her, said the plantain in your yard, the one who runs
after the orange and the acacia. The one who causes sorrow to the other
plants. The shaking of the earth shook out the earthworms and the moles from their dusty holes,
they gathered under your favourite tree and thought about a way to curb you.
That’s her, they said, the one who causes sorrow to the other animals.
I came from the black garage of your memory to help your victims. We set a trap.
We chose a black fire, a white snow and sails speeding like knives of ice.
We rolled a stone under your head, so you’d have the same dreams as the stone:
speedwell and fair streaming hair. But the stone had your dream,
woke up with sweaty sheets, sobbed in a high-pitched voice and split.
That’s her, the two halves said, the one who causes sorrow to other stones.
How sensitive and slender is a stone’s shell! Twelve old people crawled out
of the broken chunk of stone, ate the apples from your favourite tree and sermonised in a language
that sounded like ancient Aramaic. They mistook you to be their Lord, extolled
you in cloud-shaped sentences that galloped free in the sky
and rode you to your father. You cut your father’s hedge, dispersed the clouds.
That’s her, the clouds shouted, the one who causes sorrow to the other clouds.
You lost huge sums at poker. You intrigued with a demon and lost more:
you became fearless. The children of heaven swung a rope, you skipped and chanted:
Man or woman, tear or frown, take a jump and then fall down.
I didn’t know you. Tears pattered down onto heaven’s floor and said:
That’s her, the self-same one who causes sorrow to other tears.