Les Wicks
Her Light Fruit Cake{1}
Service is love dressed in work clothes.
— eastern suburbs Anglican church billboard.
Tracksuit, no make up
a gold wedding band snapped around a nail-bitten finger
I marvel as she swings up a solid arm towards
cordial on the top shelf at Go-Lo.
She's no part
of a new feminism, dabbles
as well as doubles
triples & more so many
little roles that
just about makes one, her
aim is for completion exactly like
in the 50’s where the mother cooked
for family neighbours relatives
& family neighbours relatives until
occasionally she dropped in
a snippet of Thall-rat
& someone sickened.
Not even death the sometime goal, maybe
respite via husband’s illness or a bald patch
on a wife-beater’s head as she COOKED.
His till it's hers/
hymns to the hearse.
Either young, dark as new paling fence or
the worn-patch version of same.
Mrs Grills, den mother of the neighbourhood
or Mrs Monty poisoning her lover/son-in law we
take any woman for granted at some peril.
A rough goddess' hand flips pages
of the washed-tone Women's Weekly.
At six fifteen each man clutches his beer
& stares at this night's dangerous plate.