Go to war and fight for me by Lisette R. Auton

I am not a silent poet

Go to war and fight for me

I’ll house you in a substandard property with magnolia walls in every room that

eat your voice,

keep you buried in the gloom of other women’s glares.

Coffee mornings and his rank is yours

the stink of lost men clings to the room and you all pretend

it is not clawing at the edges of your skirts

like the children do on the school run,

to the one the settled folk avoid.

Keep those spaces safe for itinerant mothers pulled at the whim of a

game of Risk played in chesterfield leather boardrooms

from Churchill’s days.

They don’t see what we see, they do not look and

you are invisible.

I fake overtime hours to save my holiday for summer sun and far away beaches

(but not Cyprus, I’m not that cruel, yet)

and two weeks stolen Christmas bliss with my family tight…

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