The Woman in Teal Pyjamas

The Woman in Teal Pyjamas

Her scent is vaguely feral.
At four o' clock in the morning, she studies
an Uluru postcard on the fridge
and feels Eve in the warm brandy
chiseling her name on apples.

Overhead the kitchen light
glows insomniac. Her lips are chapped.

TV snow, the volume turned down,
is only half the antidote after the third drink
has been poured. Eventually, the sun
anoints her face through lace curtains.

Pancakes for the kids, coffee
for the husband: rituals are resistant
to change. Over and over,
she vacuums the floor, loads the washer.
There is some joy in never
coming clean, watching the slide
of indolent suds down the crystal goblet.