The car,
to my grandmother,
wasn’t a vehicle.

It was a signal,
a proud principle,
the whole jazz

age and suffrage.
Broken bridle
and walking frame.

When age sapped her
strength, she didn’t care,
almost. The car

was a beacon.
No longer driving,
But there. Hope

manifests in strange ways.
Even in dead machines;
the Trojan horse

changed its form,
didn’t it? And so
metal turned to metaphor.

Now, rain in the cracks,
no dry centre.

trips to the window
to gaze upon
no shadow.

Now; citizen,
not soldier. A
mother cut down

not armour inside
a wooden shell.
She told me she cries

sometimes. I suppose
when the caged
bird sings,

it’s not joy,
not defiance
in the face of captivity-

It’s a lament.


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