The Invisible
‘The secret is to walk evading nothing’, Alice OswaldCroneshadow stumbles ahead of me catching
erratic feet on the tarmac ruched
as it is by roots her left foot sticking
as if in mud her stoop cranked up
by the pock-marked skin of the drystone wall
she is thrown on the angle of light sickish
orange in the early night. Her mouth
twitches down at the creases Bitchy
Resting Face though you cannot see it
dark on dark. You could say she exists
in relief except there is none not
for a structure like her misbuilt collapsing
inward with each jolt forward. I try
to right her but she will not straighten. The more
I struggle the more she looks broken. She knows
more of pain than your charts can trace
but you will not acknowledge her hear her. Her name
is a slur. Her body is carrion. It is
too late for this.
My blood too sticky.
Her edges are blurring.
My legs are unravelling.
Her gown of bones is clacking clacking.
Will we ever reach home?
I sink in my clothes
till my breath melts the frost on the empty road.
She pushes ahead of me carries on walking.
Carries on walking.
Carries on walking.