I ransack her room. Loot and pillage.
brooch. I pose in her hats,
I try on her shoes. her slippers
like umbrellas, are humming inside.
of oestrus, umbilicus, afterbirth,
of the saints. Under the counterpane,
from : The New Irish Poets, edited by Selina Guinness Bloodaxe 2004.
I remember well those fox-furs, my own mother was bequeathed a pair and I too delved into the huge old wardrobe, bringing out the fur stoles complete with little curled feet and a golden chain effect that operated as a clasp. The wardrobe revelation is part of most girl’s growing, though only that it were a peaceful thing.
In the meantime, there is a small piece on the trousseau, inheritance and the Island Women on the blog . I quite remember being unable to zip the zipper of my mother’s wedding dress confection onto me at twelve- nor indeed being able to squeeze my toes into the minute satin winkle-pickers that she wore for her wedding day !
EDIT : 25/11/2010 , this is a Reblog of a piece written to mark the 16 day Campaign to eliminate Violence Against Women and Girls.