Rag & Bone

by Helen Mort

Rag & Bone

Seeing the cart and quartz-white mare

from your window, open to the street,

I want the things that other people don’t:


tortoiseshell glasses someone must have

died in, a boa’s glossy soddenness,

the china mug, cracked with a final argument.


I want to climb inside the knackered stronghold

of a fridge – no longer cool – or lie beside you

on a mattress moulded by another’s bones,


drift down the City road, lay claim

to every disused shop, the winter trees

still reaching out for all the leaves they lost.


Come back: we’ll take the slim, once-wanted moon,

unfashionable blackboard sky. No-one will miss

the world tonight. Let’s have the lot.