It's messy,
womanhood.
From the first scarlet
peony blooming
on pristine white cotton, through
black and burgundy smudges on pillowcases
and
dodgier stains below,
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.
The
detritus of crumbled relationships -
shattered pride, sharper, more
fragile than hearts,
a tower of tissues sodden with
snot and tears.
Remnants of
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 rage,
a waterfall-turned-lake between legs,
heralding shit, piss,
projectile vomit,
and soul-wringing tenderness.
Confetti, still fluttering from that pretty
basque on our third anniversary,
belying my pledge to wear it constantly,
the lacy cups dampening and scratching sore nipples
as
feeding time approaches;
and on one
velvet shoulder, a tell-tale,
napisan-resistant sour-milk patch.
Max Factor murals, fridge
gallery exhibits
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 auburn,
the
actuality of grey. An array of
arcane
brown-glass, capsule-filled stubby jars
and scented potions and
unguents huddle
behind the mirror, congealing as their
promises painfully prove to be lies.
Shelves of my ladylike
bungalow-for-one
groan with
gaudy plaster ornaments,
grandchild-gifted, discordant and
vulgar;
anti-macassars, 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 -
a
Jackson-Pollock, violent,
abstract mess -- a life.