A riddle in four syllables.
At least, a riddle to her mind.
To everyone else it is pungent
It reeks of pale vomit and poisonous liquids,
In little vials arranged according to the laws of the anti-chance.

Her chemise tattered, in pieces around her.
Like a flailing Cinderella with tears that burn and choke her.

Humour exists,
In this.

Aunty John, et al.
Women with beards and fingers knitted tight and dry
Spilling over a page.
And her face in blue and red smudges.
Collect, collate, collage.
Write it all down, these lists.

She won’t remember in the morning,
This mourning of mine.