The Catapult

‘Please, have a proper look,’
the assistant said. He took the carving
in both hands, appraised it.
Rudimentary female figure,
in a fair wood he couldn’t name.
Bare, forked. Expression: aloof,
contained. Arms sketched in relief,
the standard ballerina pose.
A W for breasts. And then
the parted legs, ending in,
not feet, but sort of knobs,
to which, presumably, the tough,
projectile-twanging leather –
whatever – lost now, could be tied.
Between the legs: smooth wood.
That’s where the hunter’s thumb
must have rested. He wanted
to touch, too, but couldn’t –
not with the assistant waiting
for him to decide.
‘I’ll have to think about it,’
he said, and gave it back.
‘No problem,’ she replied.

---

The Cyclists

The cyclists took the corner
in italics. An entire paragraph.
We drew in and let them hurtle by.
Lean, fixed on speed,
they paid no attention to us.
They were a flashed warrant,
an illegible screed
of backs uniformly cursive
and curlicued handlebars.
Or a thigh-powered,
air-slicing machine
for clearing the roads of France.
Or the corps-de-ballet
in its celebrated show-stopper,
Get Out of Our Way!
Or – in helmets, goggles
and gaudy lycra –
a new species of insect,
related to the grasshopper
and, through some fluke of evolution,
blessed with wheels.
Windows down, we felt their breeze.
But they paid no attention to us.
Sly, weekend lovers, we were less
than a footnote. The text
had only itself to please.