v. Eurydice Packing


Fascinated,
he has to lead me
from the flames
between ribs nestling
in British Steel's coal.

Teeside, he says,
don't look back.
I train my face
onto derricks and boxes,
ships with Sri Lankan crews,
a few sucking minerals
onto conveyor belts.

Squinting at moving pillars of salt,
I'm not going to turn my head.

They regard me,
no one speaks,
a few, unloading bauxite,
huddle, smoking resin,
no words.

We decide there's little here,
we pass a few red-stained footprints,
the side of a packing case,
they stare at me,
are women banned?

I turn to look at that box,
reddened maybe, with a faint
whiff of that dragon's breath -
a gnomic warning:

Lot's wife no. 9,
Cross, 46
Met 40,
Carnage.