| Meeting the congregation My
ability to name body parts
has shocked you. I can see it
in your faces. Being his wife
you want me to unfold
a crisp, linen cloth, place it
over all flesh. But in our house
nothing is ironed.
I know, it's not what you expected.
The hunks of bread, those mugs,
the unmade bed. You wanted something
in keeping with his collar
and I am too familiar,
hanging scant lace on the line,
relaxed that my children
have seen me naked.
He seems so nice, I know,
and you long for us to be
a matching pair,
me baking scones,
his strong hands to lift the urn
but he likes the touch of my body
and the smell and taste
of being together,
knowing
that we don't care -
the bedroom, the kitchen
the blinds not down.
Even with the lights on.
Girls I Like
They've glossy well-kept hair.
I can't be doing with messy,
too hard to cut out.
Best if they're not overlapping,
no sitting on a leg, foot poking out,
that kind of thing.
Best if they're pretty,
on their own, not in a crowd.
I don't do groups.
Magazines are better than papers,
they give a better cut,
just listen to my scissors.
It fills in time, like at this bus stop,
starts a conversation.
My fingers are never idle.
Finished ones go
in the Milk Tray box. Yes,
dip in my bag and find them.
Your wrist is so slender,
I'd love to cut round that curve.
Take one if you like,
the rest will go on my walls,
neat rows watching me.
If you've got a minute
I'll show you. All of them
are about your age,
all glossy, like your hair.
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