Her right fist sits on her ribs.
The left rolls with her tongue.
Eyes wipe the ceiling.

“For three weeks
he screwed me to
unsay marriage vows
unbuild a city house
unbirth his loved child
to spring him from the life.

But I sank into his side
gulped the line of his breath
swathed his livid skin
soaked in him.

He left before I watch the mouth tell
the worry I cause is like a cancer
six weeks before he died of it.
How ridiculous, I think, this nothing girl
unpicking the stitches.”

Dark brows tug her face,
drained by love.



When did I land the directors job?


All I had to do was rewind
the whole life back
to black and white
where tumours don’t talk
and boys can be boys
without bombs or insex
dropping in for tea.

I just had to cut
the marriage gaffe
the cell growth faux pas
and paste an agreeable future
where babies are born in love
little girls wear bows
and it’s all above control.

Run that film with
genies by the swimming pool:

swooping kilims, chatting lutes
amrita in jewelled flutes.

The End fades up and

a sunset rainbow
stretches the happy ever
we gallop after.