At precisely quarter past seven this morning,
Jubilee line rumbling, a low growl,
Occasional screech sparking in long tunnel,
I was disgusted, Eric.
Really.
I was.
When the repulsion had died down
I remained clouted with a deafening
Disappointment, hard plastic, curled
Metal of my surroundings sinking in;
A dig in my ribs, an elbow.
Page 18, it began, hot day in Burma,
Sidling starchy Copper by trinkets in a market,
Sweat breaking out in bunches on your brow,
Worsened no doubt by the news
Passed from shout to shout, Chinese whispers
Of stallholders, elephant in musth
On giant rampage, one man down,
Chest imploded clubbed underfoot of angry beast,
To-ing, fro-ing,
Baying crowd as you loaded your rifle,
Hannibal sought his quarry,
Found him placid, snatching leaves at roadside
As you snapshot decided on empired horseback
What should be done to flatten the crowd,
The irksome unrest,
A colonial decision, naturally –
Man senses tingling, uniform in stranglehold,
Duty before a fall. At dusk you ripped your shots,
Saved your blushes as they cheered and savaged
Sturdy flesh that you had pummelled bullets into, walked
Away with the sight of him, mighty, eyes frozen
Like a sleepwalking brute on the cusp of death,
Debris for mind’s note,
Not dead yet, not dead yet,
You moved off;
Your work here done.
And when you ambled, Eric, imperiously
Through the streets in the days after,
Did you come across ivory carvings
Of Elephants and wonder if they’d
Caught with a whittle that look he gave you
right – the one he flickered out like a light
At the end as you sacrificed him? That glance
Acknowledging the smite-swipe of pride
Across dignity. Was some admission,
This Burmese tale, I couldn’t face you
On the way home, I’m reading
‘How the Poor Die’ tomorrow,
Hoping for redemption.
