A Woman’s Work


She had smelt betrayal;
so after ripping the flesh,
she seizes the core, plays
with the entrails, glosses
fingernails with the film of him.

His remnants litter the bedroom,
the duvet needs replacing,
smothered in the acid of gut
and the grime of intestine.

The carpet simply needs a hoover,
the rug has served as winding sheet
and will assist in dragging
leaden limbs downstairs.

She’ll scrub the black blood
from skirting boards and walls
with bleach and scalding water;
scorching rubber gloves.

The slivers of shattered brain matter
of factly cleansed from her dress,
in the tumble of heavy duty
detergent and 60° heat.

Mattress scoured with deodorising
disinfectant, left to dry in midday sun.
Freshly laundered bedding
tucked in place by seven.