This is how the spinsters die:
unthinking, careless, tired.
We could have asked for help,
but independence is hardwired.
I fixed the shower curtain rail
the other time it fell,
but reaching up this morning
I slipped halfway down to hell.
If you had spoken kindly
I’d have got you out of bed,
but waking early’s not your thing;
you sounded still half-dead.
The second load of washing on,
my day was full already.
At half past eight I tempted fate;
my balance proved unsteady.
I’m taking arnica both ways:
pills inside, salve on skin.
I’m trying not to blame myself
as bruises settle in.
A rainbow ribcage: purple, red,
and deep depressing blue.
A spinster by vocation
in the mirror – I see you.