On Her Pleasures

Harlequin dress, grey scarves a cirrus trail
silver. Spin-tapping, teetering her heels
on pavement. Somehow she will never fail
to stay upright. A tipsiness that feels

like glee. We all drink so much in those years;
her voice a diamond cutting through the smoke
of dingy pubs. And no-one counts the beers
she’s had, or notices how wine will soak

her dress, and dye its patchwork deeper red,
stain gray to mauve. If sometimes evenings end
in toilets, holding hand or aching head,
the price of joy. Drink was her last good friend

soothing, not judging, calm and always there –
tore the bright dress, put grey clouds in her hair.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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One Response to On Her Pleasures

  1. These are beautiful.

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