It hangs heavy on her menopausal hips
which bone through an M&S ready-to-wear
I have come to hate.
Its hideous taupe, ribbed-cotton drapes -
that should swing in freedom
but cling to juts of cartilage Adam’s
apple style - indicate curtains for her.
Eve’s failing frame is softened
in a pliable way like a flaccid (non-viable)
cock in a condom.
Her memory is extinct – the brown buttons
mere relics, like the lover who wouldn’t
undo them for the wrong reasons or
the taxi-driver who wouldn’t help when
she exited his cab and hoofed her hem.
It was as easy to take off as to put on –
like a snaking pashmina.