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.

Advertisements

About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to On Her Pleasures

  1. These are beautiful.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s