Patches
There used to be a secret thing
only for old women and certainly not happening here.
Imagine my confusion (anxiety/upset/irritation/depression/etc)
when, all of a sudden, my prime turned into something
entirely other.
A stultifying mist of shame descended and I
hid from concerned gazes:
I didn’t have answers:
You can’t say: I think I’m going mad,
my mind is black, my edge is dull,
and, yes, it’s bloody hot in here,
hips hurt and sleep is a foreign country where my visa is revoked.
Then with heart-breaking kindness someone stuck a see-through plaster on my bum
and I’m me again.
