The Matrices of Loss

The barren woman is trying to return, unnoticed to her
mother’s house through the mouth-like hole in the brickwork
stopped up with the fine grey pashmina that used to
mummify her throat.

Her sister is standing on the newly turned over vegetable patch
describing the wonderful christening gift she’s got her.
she holds up a tiny Prussian blue velvet dress
with silver writing on the bodice.

The barren woman moves into a doll’s house, to share with a large
owl. He shadows her menacingly leaving droppings everywhere.
She becomes an apprehensive twenty-four hour chattel.
The dark haired girl returns

She’s brought the Tobiano rocking horse with her. The barren
woman rode it through her childhood across deserted overseas shores.
Its asking price is on a cream trunk tag they use to sell antiques.
The girl’s face shows signs of scalding.

The barren women pulls the Turkish man by the hand to the duck pen
the ducklings are darting around like blobs of soot. She’s wearing a violet
Disney t-shirt with animals on. He gives her a bedroom kiss.
She reconsiders the mumsy look.

Unlocking her bike outside Woolworth’s the barren woman overhears a
woman telling her seven year old girl: ‘You look like you’re already on
IVF.’ They turn it into a song and spout forth like the Von Trapps. Silver
boots lie on the pavement like rats.