I named him Driven after what he had done.
Thinking of all the places we would go together
under the canopies of the trees, the watery suns
the skin of his knuckles popped out
against the steering wheel
one hand at two o’clock, the other just past nine.
We sat low in the cradle of the body
on the unlit roads he switched off the beams
until the darkness came out of the distance.
He promised one day, he’d roll down the roof
life would be leather gloves and headscarves,
we were our ancestors in the heart of the beast
with horns on the outside.
Parked in the mud, he took me over the walls
up the hill to the bench
we turned our backs to the railway line
felt the train coming before we heard the yell of it
the shudder went through the iron of us.
Anaemic, my knees weakened
I didn’t have the mettle for it
left him draped over the bonnet
I took the bus home.
Imogen McHugh in a current MA student at UEA, studying poetry. She writes about history, disability and horrible relationship breakdowns. You can find her @poetr_im