by Ailbhe Darcy
was black and unwashed
and had fenders.
The windows inclined upwards,
the atmosphere
cool and pure
in all weathers. On sidewalks
a door would fetch open
to bid me ride shotgun,
feet on the dashboard.
A coming-and-going car,
one end
as blunt as the other,
it sawed through a town where
men once built Studebakers,
movie stars stepped out in black and white,
Anna Oliver scolded Henry Ford:
This is a family home, Mr Ford.
It wasn’t a Chevy but it was noir.
One night
when you were driving me,
clouds of insects
were ours for outriders.
They died of us and we sang out.
We drove the baby home in that black car.
From:
Insistence
Copyright ©:
2018, Bloodaxe Books Ltd.
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