Bananas sound like chop chop chop.
My daughter (18) with her stick-insect wrists
cutting them up to freeze and blend.
My kitchen is full of their fat-free sweat.
I don’t know how to talk about it.

I pick one up and touch it
to my nose. Close, the skin
has its own dun scent. Some creatures

consume the skin, I think.
I tried that once to see. Between the teeth
a stringy density. On the mouth’s membrane
a drying, withering chalk.
The banana in my hand is cool and smooth

like a wax effigy. My fingers wrap it
with just enough of a lap
to feel secure. Its body

is firm and curvily slim
like the limb of a well-made woman,
the woman my daughter might
become, if she eats
bananas enough.

First published in The High Window, issue 1, Spring 2016

Mens underpants

Mens underpants! black, plain
Against them my     white lines
stand out
Mens underpants! solid-seamed,
heavy-hemmed, broad
in the crotch
So much space for my

Mens underpants! in the mirror
They cover the caesar scar trench
in my flesh
Mens underpants! dark, flat
Against them my     fair rondure
stands out
In them I     am so much more
of a woman

First published in Creatrix 33, June 2016

A man on the train

A man on the train
I’m opposite him

A sagfaced man
     who must once have been fat
A man perhaps forty
     with thinning dark hair
     a rough laugh
     and a phone to his ear
A man in black sunglasses
     on this grey day
A man whose open shirt lapels
     frame a small show
     of dark body hair
     on wan skin

A man who has known violence
I see that somehow in the way he sits

A man wearing terrible broken sneakers
     with a well-pressed suit
I don’t ask myself why

First published in Tamba