Helen Kitson
Keeping My Distance
You’ve become too used to me in your house -
the novelty of having a lover has worn off;
I’m a dull wife in gingham skirts;
red hands, wet knees, a zinc bucket.
You’ve got sharp claws, my dear,
you drop your scales on my clean floor.
You smell of dead rivers,
familiar as the stink of beer and fags.
If these skirts weren’t so heavy I’d fight back,
I’d drown you, my blind kitten,
in a sack so I couldn’t see your face.
It’s always the expression that kills you.
I shouldn’t put up with scratches and cuts
and the bits of dead skin you flake on my floor.
You’ve missed the contempt on my face,
the stuff I hiss at you under my breath.
You come home drunk, I put you to bed.
Another night you’re feeling sexy,
and I’m lying there, hissing at you:
Do what men do on their own.
Page(s) 31-32
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