Marianne

Marianne

I want to be a better wife,
one named Marianne,
who wears seashell silver earrings
and never gets tired,
lives in stockings,
on celery,
under lighting that best brings out
Stella Artois eyes,
who cooks well,
not by a Masterchef standard,
but specific to the man,
sticks to lettuce,
merrily watches him as he clogs his arteries.
I want to be the woman
my Grandmother raised me to be,
parade about the place
with books on her head,
sew and knit with abandon,
wear lipstick at breakfast
and screw like a movie.
I want to wear shoes
that hurt my thighs,
not care that I work
round the clock
devoid of salary or thanks
and on the flip side
I want to eat sixty cakes daily
until every man loathes me,
make every meal vegan and
damningly beautiful,
photograph everything,
to sit in rooms
so dark my eyes turn black,
to work assuming the rest
is someone else's responsibility,
cut off my hair,
be haired everywhere else,
wear no shirt,
sleep in a king-size bed,
wank on Saturdays
in front of one hundred mirrors.
I want to paint war markings over my nose,
live alone for thousands of years,
feet encrusted in thick river mud,
swim and swim until home is no longer recognisable
until no one has an opinion
regarding who a woman should be,
at least not in a tongue
understood by a woman,
so entirely whole,
named Marianne.