all my ex boyfriends are having a dinner party
comparing their tight obliques
how red their meat hattricks
for their grassroots teams
saying they once had me
in a car how I can never keep
my mouth shut I always
wanted to stay the night
I’m dieting again
burning my hands
sipping low cal miso
on a moving train
I smile at other joggers
like I’m enjoying this
the dentist says I have
yellow teeth his hands
holding my tongue mum said
there is nothing you can’t do
so long as you’re wearing
washing up gloves
a purple leaflet
in the waiting room
asks me if life
has worked out
a) better b) worse
or c) the same
for one thousand
pounds I can fix
my teeth mum
used to ballroom dance
a wooden spoon
weeping with the radio
I’ve been keeping
my fallen eye lashes
in a bag I spit pink
foam into the sink
decide this week
I will eat only eggs
until the days smudge
do the fat burn challenge
pain is a man
in a blue suit
I see people eating
crisps in public
on Mondays
like they have
no guilt
We girls our names
on pink keyrings, him
gargling a shadow outside
dad’s house. He can’t come
in. At the petrol station he
buys a bottle, a cigarette
between us. Christmas stink
swings from the rear-view,
I lean to kiss the blond grit
on his chin, my neck sliced
by the seatbelt. Our scents
quickening, the Lynx hiding
faith, tongues bleached mint.
At 14 I’m all worship, small
knowing, a seal pup in waiting
legs newly slick from dad’s razor.
Later I trap Meg in a cubicle,
tell her it still hurts, orange
foundation masking the
shame of a sink. Walking
home a van honks. I yank
my hem to the ground,
wave.
Tulips
from the market where the tulips are still three quid.
For yourself because you could, and it was important
to remind yourself. Yes, those tulips that start tight
-lipped and upright, those petals will start to lean away
from their own, as you do when a man makes a tulip of
you with his open hand. You know the cat will cry at two.
Some nights you will sleep through your body and other
nights it will fling you upright as though your brother is
dying again. You know what the wine does to your teeth
and about leaving. You know you keep useless things in
case you need to make a shrine. You know you make gods
of men whose toothbrushes sit charging on the counter.
You know this and you let them make an option of your
avocado, rolling it around.
