BRUSHING MY HAIR

 

He married me for my family tree,

my nineteen inch waist, my strange green eyes.

I provided two boys and an icing-sugar, frilly girl.

I kept my nineteen inches

and the depth in the green of my eyes.

 

Separate bedrooms are a relief.

I go up first, put on a white nightdress

and brush my hair, one hundred times, never fewer.

My husband taps lightly on my door.

Goodnight, my dear. I rarely reply.

 

I know I look beautiful - made for love -

and I have no lover to praise my eyes

or my ridiculous tumble of hair.

It's the timidity of my husband's taps

that irritates me beyond desire.

 

I am glad to see the back of him

but the tautness of the bedsheets saddens me.

The only hairs on the pillows are mine.

My room smells of perfume, powder, dust;

my own stale breath, dead flowers.

 

(First published in the bluechrome anthology, 2004)

 

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