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Lucy Hamilton

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Mal Culottée

Lucy Hamilton reading Mal Culottee 1488.7 KB
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We call it ‘hoisting the sails’, when she’s at half-
mast or has the ‘sails’ flapping round her ankles
as I come in from work to find her laughing
or arguing in French with long-lost uncles.

She smiles: ‘I often talk to myself, did
you know?’ – face glowing with animation.
‘Did you know that your knickers aren’t even mid-
­way up?’ She chuckles, shrugs away convention.

But she’s uncomfortable and sore and soaking
and as I soap and talc her clean and dry
ad-libbing forgotten bits of We are Sailing –

‘The things I ask you to do for me,’ she sighs.
I hoist the sails. ‘But nothing you didn’t do
for me’, I say. She nods. ‘That’s very true.’

from Sonnets for my Mother

Page(s) 46

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