Nudged awake from the slumber of nurture,
I find the women living in my house.
How they got here is anybody’s guess; I’m sure
I asked for babies, but here they are anyway,
bragging that their breasts are bigger than mine,
filling my fridge with strong coffee and yoghurts.
Baby-gros and terry squares have given way
to sweaty gym kits, burlesque brassières;
skimpy pants curl on the line like tobacco leaves.
In school uniform they’re more Britney than Bunty.
The women sit in my kitchen, eyes and thumbs
grafted to their oracles, giving an occasional grunt.
They know the answers to everything.
I wish they would learn to cook or drive.
They talk in their own language, as if someone
has pressed play and fast forward together,
their verbal salvoes punctuated by bouts of inexplicable
laughter every time I open my mouth to join in.
The women come and go as they please, like cats;
‘Love you!’ they call, jangling their keys.
In their absence the door of their room remains shut
and when I go in it smells of new shoes and musk.