Were you to morph your head into my vagina
Like some gooey Cronenberg creation,
My senses stimulated, my body
Twisting, and gazed
Into my womb,
You would not find terracotta floor tiles
Black off white off black, their square edges
Cut pentagonally, granite kitchen units
Wiped clean yet no shine, streaky traces
Of dishcloth, drawers stacked
With stainless steel cutlery Sheffield no longer,
Marigold rubber gloves
By the side of the sink, a mop in its bucket
In the annexe room

Nor might you see
The polished parquet flooring
Of a study, a threadbare rug
Of incongruous colours, a hall-lamp,
Its stately shade hindering like a bushel,
Bookcases randomly piled,
An oak desk weathered with ink and paper,
Maybe a piano even,
Curtains only half-drawn.

No rounded thoughts, no erudite vowels
No well-argued denials and counterpoints

Just shards of glass crunched under Wellington boots,
A splintered floor of a garden shed
Where some leaves have blown in,
Rusty implements barely hanging from the sides,
The cold, moist air wrapped around your skin like a piss-ridden blanket
The pale, wan cloud cover of a late winter afternoon
And beating through the non-mist –