Eternity Ring

I can't get this blasted thing off:
the ring set with stones that eats into

my flesh. I've tried fretsaws and slashers
and pneumatic drills; Fatima,

butter and soap. Lard.
I rode a tank over my knuckles,

I dropped a bomb onto my hand.
The ring is still grand.

Conversation Class

I redden to the roots when Jacqueline Dupont zuts
at my French. She cocks her ear and smoothes her coif and
sits me on a poof, settles herself on a chaise-longue.

'Encore une fois,' she zaps, and taps her nails and sips
her Perrier. My tongue is jammed, my teeth are in a
brace. Her hands fly to her face. 'Mon Dieu,' she cries,

'Mon Dieu, qu'est-ce qu'on peut faire?'

I fiddle with my cuticles. She checks her watch and snaps,
'Ouvrez la bouche!' Her forty clocks tick on, tick on.
Her cuckoos coil behind their yodel-flaps. Her grandfathers,

lined up against the wall, come every fifteen minutes
with a boing. 'Finie la classe!' She pours herself
a glass of Armagnac. 'Vous voulez un petit peu?'

I sluice the liquor back.

My tongue is loosed. My eyes are glazed. I sing
the Marseillaise. I feel a revolution
in the red flare of my skirt.

Family Circus

Dadda flexes his muscles. His buttons
go ping. His chest-hair springs out
of his vest. I sit mute as he lashes
at Mamma.

Mamma slumps in the chair. With her eyes
calls her infant performer, her stage-hand,
her prop. I stand firm in my sequins
and tights.

I make doe-eyes at Dadda; tap-dance,
do the splits. When the globus hystericus
swells in my throat, I swallow
my tongue.

· Hare Soup is published by Faber