Kitchen

Milk on your lips – shuffling soul,
shuffling feet on the lino.

Unwind your bones, unstitch your
muscles, unpick your thoughts.

Lean against the counter, bleached like
bird skeletons in the sand.
The fluorescent bulb does not forgive you
for your sins. It judges.
It tuts. It hums.

Rub your eyes.
Day-old mascara
flakes away like dead
skin.

Your white singlet rides up. The ridge of
your hip is like the lip of an ancient vessel,
an amphora dry of wine.

You’re far
too thin.