::11:22:08::

::: Autumn for Miss Cornstalk :::

Open-ended dates offer a sense of hope.
A leaf encased in plastic.
The base inscribed: Julia Cornstalk, 1958 –

Sometimes, I weep over adverts for soap.
The mother, with cashmere hand
cradling her child's cheek, sleek
as a puddle of wine.

“You see that, Mister?” I say, blinking tears,
“Soap equals happiness.”
Mister is my new husband.
I tug his whiskers when he doesn'sUt answer.

~

Silent pictures on the bookshelf.

There was another, almost.
He had a side-parting and tinted shades.
I wound him up till his handle snapped
like... an overfilled carrier bag.

We were in love once,
so I tell myself when the house breathes.
The world filled with fragrances, linen.
I lived inside a Mills & Boon pie.

Then the children came; and went
as they pleased.

~

I've been listening to her face rot for 50 years.
Mother speaks like a sterile wasp:
“Julia, you're getting very plump.”

That's because there are three of me -
one sitting, one screaming, one dead.
I hold the smile-skin in place with pins.

She leaves after eating my muffins
and wasting my precious lime.
A full complement of lime is essential.

~

My therapist says:
“Life is composed of colours,”
grandiloquently, finger on nose.

Young, she stands,
her cottony dress wet up one side,
and hands me a cassette:
“Try to remain engaged with speaking” -
on a 90 minute loop.

I start listening on my Sony Walkman.
She seems pleased.

~

The chessboard floor is slippery.
I scrub my fingers and nails and palms.

There is a man in a Jesus t-shirt,
staring from the green corner.
We are similarly built, breast-wise.
He resembles a collapsed bed.

“Try to remain engaged with speaking”
I say, obeying the recorded voice.
The man responds by dancing
a Falstaffian jig.

He outstretches both arms, and coos.

~

Hands, neatly folded in my lap.

The bus driver loudly puffs a cigar.
“Try to remain – ” I yell above the smoke
as the tape clicks, and rewinds.

~

A small crowd crowds around my garden.
Mister has been flattened by a milk float.

The attendant vet remarks:
“Mister's reactions were quite poor, I'm afraid.”
I threaten to burn his throat for slander.

The leaves are turning red, like sofas,
tiny red sofas.

Written by: ~ Benjamin Stainton