Monday

A telephone call from the Doctor.
He wants to know why I haven't been to see him
and no he can’t come to me unless
I open the door.  The old one used
to leave medicine on the window sill,
this one has rules I think.  He's young
so he follows them.

Tuesday

The Vaseline smears on the window have faded
and now they’re not enough to obscure the truth.
Smoke and mirrors of inclement weather
need to be framed and hung.
I’ll have to buy more.
In preparation I disappear inside
my coat.  No-one sees me,
but now the cat is cold and
he'll need litter instead.

Wednesday

Made up faces are patronising me from
the South Bank, concerned to find me
hiding in cobwebs.  I beg them to stop.
They suggest I call this number and choose
A, B or C.  

Thursday

I find mould growing in the bath.
I water it down
and make finger paintings
of the people I used like.  
Sludgy green eyes and plug hole hair,
rust coloured cheeks.
I don’t remember enough but it suits them.

Friday

Sharp toothed children knock on my door.
They want their laughter back.  I tell them
I can’t do that, using the letterbox and
gingerly offering the tears I’ve collected.
My hand is slapped from underneath.
I’m drying out.

Saturday

I stay in bed today.
The floor is slipping away.

Sunday

I watch Songs Of Praise
and pray.  He'll get back to me tomorrow.

I’m summer.

I know this because my feet are heat swollen
and my wedding ring doesn’t fit. Pushing sausage
fingers through a listless fringe, careful to avoid streaking
the melting liner on lower lids. The magnified sun radiates
an inch from my elbow and though summer’s intensity
bullies my strength, I can’t fall asleep,
I'm too busy.

I want to be the Autumn Ladies
sat at the front, gradually turning a shade
of burnt orange, accustomed to long and fruitful
summers.  They giggle in linen as the driver takes
bumps at speed, shaking their hair and dishevelling
leaves.  They’ve nurtured their seeds and are watching them
fall, their branches are freeing from burdens.

Winter sits near the stairs, cool and serene,
******* on travel sweets secreted in tins.
They watch Autumns’ laughter and smile,
remembering the fun after studious graft;  their seeds
are now trees in a burgeoning forest. At ease with their
future and legacy’s passed, their season is long and
peaceful.

Spring lies at the back, the most to prove, planting
to do, troughs to plough.  She looks to thinning out,
the culling of friends; only the strong will
survive the gardener’s hand.  Much expectations
are placed on her future, her bark underdone,
colours unknown against seedling green.  She strives
for sun in the shadow of elders, wild growing
weeds threaten her path.

I’m glad I’m not Spring anymore.

Serve lush lies
on a delicate breath
wrapped in a station
holding flowers
and condoms in a blue case
two things essential,
one to say thank you
the other to spare the
piteous smiles of pristine nurses,
gum clinics, abortionists tables,
what would it matter?
Most of this would still be removed.

Flick eyes up
over fizzing cans
two straws roll on lips
and train track rhythm
as teeth bite down
(could his need for fellation be more obvious).

Arrive at the destination
and fidget under clothes
for keys and *******
against the wall
******* taut
and dampness under bra
as the door swings open,
"the bed has fresh sheets
just for you"

You're supposed to be happy.

Time to smile.

Piled in corners
are things I've tried to be.
Study books build staircases,
art materials stack up in paint splashed bonfires,
a yoga mat lolls like a disembodied tongue
and the sewing machine crouches beetle like,
chews on thread
weaves a cocoon over itself.
Pictures line the walls.
I smile behind glass,
children tuck in, arms tight.

i
She walks past you
features limp
protective hand in the small of her back.
You won't know that she bleeds too early.

ii
She rushes past mothercare
sideways glance at the cardboard baby
talcum powder clouds, cotton socks.
You won't know that there's an empty cot
at the foot of her bed.

iii
She soaks the sheets with tears and milk
full ******* that ache when your baby cries.
You will have been told that hers never woke,
and hold yours tighter as the nurse draws the curtain.

Mark’s hands are grooved by ***** handles
grown on trees in the garden. He fastens bundles
and plains the best, saves leftovers for autumn piles.
The forks and tangles become a bonfire
where his children pull on woollen ears, spin red cheeks
with tumbling songs, watch Mark butter tinfoil spuds.

The children sneek off into adulthood and play catch
with a gilt wooden box, the pick of the grain
from the trees in the garden where a new ***** fills in gaping holes.

The box throws out branches in a cobwebbed cupboard.
Green hands with grooves droop in summer
then yellow and fall in the middle of autumn.
The bottom of the cupboard mulched with bones
and the children’s cheeks still burn.

She calls me for bath time,
it’s Sunday night,
the smell of Vosene won’t wait.
I will not face the cabinet mirror.

A pier slumps, soaks water
into fragile stilts
while a Houdini wannabe escapes
from a chamber in the main hall.

Somewhere there is applause.

She offers to come in and wash my
hair; I decline, swish my voice into splashes.
To her I am small, unthreatening.
There is no need for alarm

but she doesn’t know
that I was already poisoned,
that my handwashed bras
smell of sour milk.