House Wife

three poems

House Wife

I carry a box of baubles into the future, 
beauty is so light! 

I tied myself in knots around a man’s fingers 
until I became his hands. 

Counted all my skirts and threw them away, 
wrinkle by wrinkle, to mark the passing of time. 

Ate chocolate spread by the spoonful like love, 
it is, like love. 
And coffee is the night. 

There is snot on the rainbow unicorn, 
it's sick with a cold, like me. 

And I am hugging him for more than a minute 
as if time doesn’t exist. 

All those things I say, cosy porridgy words,
syrup squeezed on top. 

This is where I live. 

When I move my chair on the tiles, 
just like pulling away from you, 
it sounds out like an antique accordion, protesting.  

Suddenly, then, my bed becomes a mausoleum. 

And he goes to work. 

(first published in Icarus magazine)

Speaking in Tongues

Sometimes, when
you sleep, you speak in tongues.

I listen with my ears wide 
and I know 
tender places still intrigue you.

Those words,
like an imprint of 
your hand on my skin.

Each word slurred, 
you could be drunk!

I wish for wine 
to redden my lips like a bite. 
A fire in this bed is burning. 

Shall I type it exactly as it is?
With hammer fingers
on the ribbon of my phone.

I am too round. 
Too soft.
Too milky.
Too tired. 
Too damn hot!

The flame when it burns 
is a forest-fire, lava 
the heart of a volcano.

Our bed, a boat in a firestorm,
utterly indifferent.

Heat is a turncoat
willing to lend rage or passion
its bright burning.

What did you say again?

Your voice, lost 
in the mish-mash duvet
the myriad creases.
Sentinel baby in our midst 
demanding milk. 

I forget what you said
after all. 

(heavily edited for you after being published first in Cafe Writers several years ago)

Bilberries

Come July I will be grovelling among the heidelbeeren,

some kind of prayer for sweetness come winter.

My hands blue-black instead regular bleach.

I will sweat like a lover.

Who remembers what that felt like?

A tomb is tucked beneath berries,

known as me. Housewife.

The house squeezes my temples,

a wife is a damp dark cave.

Everyone’s peace comes from me

loading the dishwasher, washing clothes. Baking.

Baking. Lunch is a migraine.

Bathing children push unicorns into my thighs.

Shitting I am offered toilet roll, (doing all I do

still doesn’t demonstrate capability.) Thank you!

I call him in his mothers voice to help with something heavy.

He will make me call out later, in a voice I don’t recognise,

made of molasses and cooked pears.

Tomorrow I will bake a cake, make icecream

with last years bilberries, everyone will have forgotten

how much they hated me scooping them up.

Packing them in Tupperware,

making them carry one each,

(while I carry everything else.)

Then, lying on the forest floor exhausted

looking up at the sky.

(the bumper year where I/we picked so many wild blueberries in the forest we had jam for 3 years! Very slow going until I bought the berry scoops you see to the right of the picture)

Go on! you know you want to make me dance with joy to get a tip!! if you can’t afford to I will also beam for a restack or a recommendation! thank you for being here and reading my words, I love you!