(for Jane)
The traffic’s been worse than ever this year,
straining bumper to choking tail,
inching towards the roundabout. We feel
that there’s less oxygen to breathe in air,
less room for manoeuvre. Your flyover’s arch
holds cars in a rainbow, its pot of gold
somewhere in town. Meanwhile, below,
mothers with pushchairs use the underpass,
struggle with shopping. These are the circles
of Dante’s hell. There’s the view
from the parapet, of course. But you,
like the transport, wanted somewhere else.
I remember the flyover being built.
The word was for freedom, for rising high
and swiftly, for avoiding a wait.
It was for cruising, for a wider view,
it was for people just passing through.
It sounded like death. All day the pile-
drivers thudded into the earth
with a sickening heartbeat. Flying takes viol-
ence and, the thing is, cement
needs a body before it’s a monument.
At two in the morning the strongest hug
never touches the hurt. A mug
does something, but delivers less
than a bottle. Now your breath’s
part-time, so it disappears,
comes back when you’re desperate. Your tears
are diamond earrings. You crave
some rightness, but you don’t believe
in anything less than pain: the tug
of concrete, with its credible hug.
I think of you as I’m changing gear,
approaching the junction. In their cars
gilded commuters are longing for home,
profiles pharaonic on the sunset’s tomb.
They play radio memories. Illness had made
you less than yourself. I ride
the flyover, clutching the wheel,
in awe of your uninhibited fall
into the streetlights’ broken glass.
I envy the gesture but pity the glitz
that has tied up the traffic as your chiffon scarf,
made your belt a roundabout. I feel unsafe
at the apex, not because of despair.
My feet itch, like yours, for the giving air.