I am in the kitchen.
I am nine.
The kitchen, littered with coffee filters,
stark tiles, strip lights, grated cheese
Gordon's paper bags and floppy disks.
The office kitchen
Where I have summarised,
Where I have been taught to hate you,
You and your sticky salt water fish eyes.
Where I measure myself against the big, black void of the plastic bin,
Where I wait for Terri to stop delivering,
To come back and show me pictures of plastic surgery
The nail in her tyre,
The dog in the street, rescued.
Pig legs, flapjack.
You have to go to Impress.
But I close down and play on with the attack of the womb.
Is, infertile. Oh,
Perhaps this is why they surround themselves
with hundreds of fish and eggs,
their scaly water babies,
Gills drinking bucks fizz.