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by Irene Cunningham

How many mothers make a day

for themselves
create space

fictions

poetry from battles

and bottle the blood?

I have vintage years 
in recesses

stacked against plain plonk.

Capsules of me donated daily

dispensed with stress

and forgetfulness

gleaming

dark like beads

of death.

So when my day comes

crack open my skull

feel the suction

of fresh kill
slap it on a slab

slice sensible cuts

with intelligent hardware –

a cuisine challenge.

Marinade my thoughts

barbecue scattered dreams

pull away the gristle 
and fry my age-old brain

with herby garlic mushroom;

I am nothing

if not useful.

* * * * *

Irene Cunningham’s recent publications: In Between Hangovers, Picaroon, South Bank Poetry, I am not a Silent Poet, Former Cactus, Riggwelter, The Lake, Shoreline of Infinity, Blue Nib. She thinks about the outside world but isn’t often there. One of her poems published this year has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize. Her website is  http://ireneintheworld.wixsite.com/writer