She was growed up to be A Shamed,
like a hot tomato, ripe with embarrassment
head branch bent, too fragile, too guilty,
(smelling of chlorophyll),
constantly praying her skin would keep her in
until she could peel it off.
‘You reap what you sow,’ her mother said,
‘the fruits of your labour’.
Oh yes, the woman’s knees were grass stained.
And what knees! God made them for kneeling.
She never stood up straight,
broken backs and pip pip pip,
‘Please leave a message after the tone’.
(the fundus umbilicus),
heads hung like parliament;
eyes to the left and nose to the right
(Picasso would have been proud),
while she was tied to the middle ground,
a stake (in her future) for a spine.
‘The fruit never falls far,’ her mother said.
‘But I wanted to be a flower, a white rose
with wedding dress petals,’ she replied.
Her belly swelled. Her skin stretched.
Inside small seeds of desire waited for harvest rape
(to split, to tear, to rip).
If only she’d read Latin instead of romance.
If only the fullness of time wasn’t so empty.