Originally published in Melbourne-based zine, F*EMS


Your shoeless feet glide across the dusty floor

as you make his Saturday morning pancakes

the same floor

I laid on

for countless hours

across the contrasting tiles

dripping tears into a corded telephone

pouring out my smashed heart

to my grandmother

the only person who would listen.


As the moist zones between genitals

heighten the affair

your skin cells mix with mine

in the sheets we’ve all made love on

wrapping yourself around him

knowing I had only recently

been there too

with just as much thrust,

but not as much desire or stimulation.


You only see a poor man left to defend his convictions

against the wicked ways of women


But just as you are not a temptress

I am not a street side whore

only a broken body left

with a need to keep alive the parts in which he did not steal

or, more truthfully,

the parts I did not give up


I am more than a rusty bobby pin

or the scarf crammed between the bedhead and bedside table

Did you think of me

dumped aside

as you roared in like a tidal wave?


We women watch the wilted egos

of men

who see as nothing more than

open holes and pancake makers

you and I share something other than him


our wombs, our ways

we are one, closer to each other than either of us

have ever

will ever

be to him