Trilogy

 Cooking Perfect Turkey

"This tastes like..." unsmiling,
he frisbeed the plate to shatter
her independence.

They may have come to blows,
that is, he broke her ribs,
a nose, a wrist, blackened eyes

or maybe she was just clumsy,
fell down stairs too often,
kept running into doors.

He made her the guilty one,
stripped away her self-belief,
left her nothing of herself.

She learned those lessons well,
never cooked turkey again,
the core of her too timid, now.

He had to find other excuses
for such abuse, to make her small
and feel powerful despite his own fear.

The Waters of Mars

All the canals on Mars, desert dry -
thin aired and fantastical.

There was just such a poverty about her life;
experience, knowledge companions.

Still, she had the washing-up and ironing
and the views from her kitchen window

and dreams of the waters of Mars.
She listened to Holst, I believe

whilst her veins knotted up indiscretely,
giving her chills and fevers.

Later, she dressed her life in silver,
flame licked foils and lighter fuel.

She took to staring at her reflection
in the upturned bowls of spoons.

All her friends had left by then,
but she never even noticed

and the music no longer played
no matter how loud she hummed.

Taking Home the Prize

In an hour approaching perfection
she rose to birdsong, and houses breathing smoke.

She set about righting her life
with a smile and a cut-throat razor.

Stained her bowl of hot water -
coloured it with life and a smile.

Now, the beatings stopped -
heart and feet and fist.

She slipped away down the path,
skipped into skyfall, heard the Ode to Joy.