Ribbon
by Peter Anderson
Tangled strips of pink
And white plastic
Like freshly flattened
Intestines in a heap
On the road
And I can’t look away.
I'm fascinated.
Am I sick?
Nothing else around, but
Barrenness, the empty sky
And heat.
It’s the ribbon
They twine around those stocky
Whitewashed barrels
That stand at intervals
Alongside roadworks,
I think.
I change gears,
Climbing the hill.
Check in the
Mirror
For that heap of guts,
Or is it plastic.
A taste in my mouth
Like fresh copper shavings.
It is the heat.
Or the blood.
Copyright © 2000 by Peter Anderson.
Reprinted from Vanishing Ground
by Peter Anderson, with the permission of Quartz Press, Republic
of South Africa.
