Wednesday, 20 April 2016

April Poetry 2016/20


No perfume, just the musk of a day
spent writing at the computer, spruced
with the fresh scent of soap clinging
to her arms and armpits. No makeup.
Shadows falling on her face define her eyes,
her lips, her cheekbones, the hollows
and roadways left when her youth departed,
the topography of wisdom, of lessons learned
and freedoms won, little by little.
Her hair falls free, unbrushed, curled
and spiralled from drying naturally.
No bra, no girdle. Her breasts hang naturally,
pulling her shoulders taut and her belly
always too big and now too full of fear
to do more than reflect the gaze
of the lascivious. She doesn't care.
The lines around her mouth tighten.
She could break a man's arm with one movement,
shatter his floating ribs with a punch
break his neck with a two-step shuffle.
She says nothing, but the casual insult hurled her way
still makes her flinch. She smiles anyway.

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