It's messy, womanhood
From the first scarlet peony
on pristine white cotton, through
black and burgundy smudges on pillowcases
after a drunken girls-night-out
that somehow swept up boys
along the way. Animal magnetism
my comment, bitches in heat,
the judgemental, parental mutter.
of crumbled relationships -
shattered pride, sharper, more fragile
a tower of tissues sodden with
snot and tears. Remnants
shredded snapshots caught hiding
in the back of the sofa, to
start me weeping again, months later.
Hastily-rinsed daybreak basins,
crockery smashed in hyper-hormonal
a waterfall-turned-lake between legs,
heralding shit, piss, projectile vomit
and soul-wringing tenderness.
, still fluttering from that pretty
on our third anniversary,
belying my pledge to wear it constantly,
the lacy cups dampening and scratching sore nipples
as feeding time
and on one velvet
shoulder, a tell-tale,
-resistant sour-milk patch.
murals, fridge gallery
colouring my warehouse-white space; sticky
organic additions to patterned carpet.
In the bathroom, a purple butterfly
perches on a cream towel, bearing
mute witness to the artificiality
of grey. An array of arcane
brown-glass, capsule-filled stubby jars
and scented potions and unguents
behind the mirror, congealing as their
promises painfully prove to be lies.
Shelves of my ladylike bungalow
groan with gaudy
grandchild-gifted, discordant and vulgar
, crocheted doileys
old-lady trappings, kindly meant:
dearer, perhaps, in its desperation, than all the rest -
this final earthly clutter before the cleansing flame.
Yes, it's messy, womanhood, and glorious -
mess -- a life.