by Josie Turner

I’m tough, you said, towards the end, knowing
it is hard to stop. The shuttle wants to
weave new cloth – we find words; we slot the tongue
of the buckle into a makeshift notch.

Your old saying – I want a new nothing
to hang by my side – resounds. Its after-
shocks of silence taste bitter in my mouth.
I lick the iron bridle, then spit it out.

We are swayed to be makers. Taken with
the class on a lashing afternoon to
a still-raw dual carriageway that mocked up
the land, with plastic earth on our hard hands
we twisted bulbs into an embankment,
so they might bloom one day in the distance.