Rose Rahtz

ALT RACHEL BRUCE Fearful Self-Portrait as the Mother of Your Children I am both beast and sentient feather duster, a pair of disembodied hands mashing potatoes. Where has my deliciousness gone, the lacy black number I was when you used to hold me? Like a spider trying to escape a bath I am a punchline without set up. Everyone wants a chunk of my insides. You are well fed - indeed you are confettied, wrapped in gold and laurelled for each sock you pick off the floor. My arms are heavy with the rest and the memory of the woman I was. The blonde things chained to me are joy. You were blonde when you were small. I cannot see the top of my own head to tell its hue. I am starved of my ambitions save I should starve my children. I love desperately, like a wounded animal. Who is it that has inflicted the injury?