April Bulmer – p. 86

Iris

Labour Union I draped myself in cloth, dedicated my gowns to a goddess not lost: Achelois of the Moon. I prayed to her, and she washed away my pain. I grew my hair long and tinted it blonde.

I grew fat and learned to love my curves, my breasts, the folds of my belly. No husband nor lover, instead I held myself in the warmth of a caress as though I wore a sweater.

In the mornings, I enjoyed the scent of citrus on my skin.

In the shadows of evening, I scrubbed my face, anointed it with a healing balm. I was lovely then in the dim.

Not wife nor great-with-child, I laboured and gave birth to woman.

Felicity Sidnell Reid

Family Portrait—Great Aunt Harriet

I have history written in my wrinkles. She laughs at age, and waves a whole new scene on stage. The protagonist begins as stranger in a story, we’ve not heard before. Great-Aunt Harriet sits back in her favoured chair, her foot-spa massaging tired heels and toes soothing sagging arches, stimulating soles.

Bodies tell of family secrets, hint at the mystery of those who made us what we are. The children roll their eyes, their question— What’s she on about? — so clear upon their faces, she grimaces. Her hand shoots out and grabs a great-niece by her skinny wrist. How many parents have you, Ellie? Mesmerized she whispers, Two How many grandparents then? Four? And can you say how many Great-grandparents people have? Ellie looks about her at cousins poised to mock aunt’s victim. Her mouth turns down. A rustling starts like wind through weeds, defiantly she shouts— One Great Granny, the rest are dead!

Aunt shakes her hand and indicates applause is due Well done, well done, little one but we inherit from the dead. Each family opens like a fan, till a few generations back hundreds have crowded up to become your heritage. That’s how you are growing into you. Triumphant, she points to each child in turn And you’re the pin of new fans if you have children, every one of you.