WASH YOUR DIRTY LINEN IN PUBLIC 2016 (FULL COLLECTION) BACK
CHARLEY GENEVER
Chapatti Wife’s Bindhi
It never loses shape,
even when the two hairs at its centre
dance in the heat of the frying pan,
even when she offers it to the floor
and the pressure of her head
should smudge its symmetry –
it remains heavy with colour.
You watch two peeled onions
find their place on the chopping board.
When they centre, she invites you to sit
with her open palm – she must never speak.
She takes a knife, holds it to her braid
cuts off loose strands of hair
and they fall into the grinding pot.
She adds her mother’s sun-cracked heels,
the curve of father’s left slipper,
the belly wobble of her brother’s laughter,
sister’s home made perfume,
the o’s and a’s of grandmother’s necklace,
bristles from her neighbour’s broom,
and the moisture from your breath.
She grinds the mixture and cooks
until the centre of the pan
is an orb of red paste.
She pours a portion on to a chapatti
she had prepared earlier,
the rest is jarred and shelved
to last a generation of occasional touch.
She rolls the chapatti up and bows,
offering you the plate and returning
her creaseless brow to the floor-
she must never watch you eat.
There is warmth in your jaw,
maybe this is what it means
to have a wife give herself to you entirely.
an uncleanable speck
she always was
full of things
in her silent white house
a sweatshop
scour dilute repeat
she paints a mushroom
on the wall
in slow circles
scour dilute repeat
her hands porous
never dirtless
her feet blistered
sore and powdery
she smelt
of hidden secrets
a stuffed hoover bag
fluffed at arm’s length
an abandoned pillow
she was like
the mouth of quicksand
still surfaced
underneath
scour dilute repeat
thuds of walled wolves
she heard the
whisper
some would
look in
they only ever see the filth
they only ever see the filth
look in
some would
whisper
she heard the
thuds of walled wolves
scour dilute repeat
underneath
still surfaced
the mouth of quicksand
she was like
an abandoned pillow
fluffed at arm’s length
a stuffed hoover bag
of hidden secrets
she smelt
sore and powdery
her feet blistered
never dirtless
her hands porous
scour dilute repeat
in slow circles
on the wall
she paints a mushroom
scour dilute repeat
a sweatshop
in her silent white house
full of things
she always was
an uncleanable speck
Thread in Three Parts
I
she is watching the sky leak
from lipped clouds
and catches the shattering sun
in the seams of her white dress
she runs home as fast as she can
to show her mother the fire seeds
she will grow all for herself
her mother sends her upstairs
to clean herself immediately
before the men wake up
she says the smell of hot metal
is a ghost we must keep to ourselves
so the men aren’t reminded
of chains and hellfire
II
a red worm stitched through an apple
sits umbilical
a hunched pigeon fumbles and tugs
eventually drops it in water
III
the oldest girl pulls it out her pocket
dangles it like a dead rat
rosy cheeked and curious
they jellyfish around her
underwhelmed by its softness
one girl thimbles her thumb with it
unravels it and plays seamstress
makes a luxurious white dress and scarf
for Barbie to wear on her date
but Ken is terrified by it
what it shows and what it reveals
Dirty Linen
A man should be clean
a man’s filth should remain unseen
a man should be a barren landscape
a man should hold his shape like a queen
for a woman to take him as her own and own him
a man’s emotions are an artefact of hormone
a sin for which he will forever atone
a man should smell of sweet relish
a man should be content as a side dish
a man should cherish all women
for a woman should be respected by all men
a man should be a penned hen
a man should be confined to his woman’s home
where a man is inclined to cook and clean and scrub
for this is how man was designed
to wash the dirty linen of a woman’s throne
I see uneasy faces before me
and of course you are free to abhor the décor
upon the door to which I have opened this poem
perhaps I should clean up the metaphor
we are stuck believing the dynasty of opposition
that everything is binary and every entity has a rivalry
and there is no power struggle more primitive
than the systematic ying yang of he and she
we are aggressively exposed to every day
and I am just following the rules I mentioned before
and imposing the same rhetoric in the opposite way so therefore
the man I call man is not a man more subversion of one
and a man undone is nothing more than a woman
CHARLEY GENEVER
Chapatti Wife’s Bindhi
It never loses shape,
even when the two hairs at its centre
dance in the heat of the frying pan,
even when she offers it to the floor
and the pressure of her head
should smudge its symmetry –
it remains heavy with colour.
You watch two peeled onions
find their place on the chopping board.
When they centre, she invites you to sit
with her open palm – she must never speak.
She takes a knife, holds it to her braid
cuts off loose strands of hair
and they fall into the grinding pot.
She adds her mother’s sun-cracked heels,
the curve of father’s left slipper,
the belly wobble of her brother’s laughter,
sister’s home made perfume,
the o’s and a’s of grandmother’s necklace,
bristles from her neighbour’s broom,
and the moisture from your breath.
She grinds the mixture and cooks
until the centre of the pan
is an orb of red paste.
She pours a portion on to a chapatti
she had prepared earlier,
the rest is jarred and shelved
to last a generation of occasional touch.
She rolls the chapatti up and bows,
offering you the plate and returning
her creaseless brow to the floor-
she must never watch you eat.
There is warmth in your jaw,
maybe this is what it means
to have a wife give herself to you entirely.
an uncleanable speck
she always was
full of things
in her silent white house
a sweatshop
scour dilute repeat
she paints a mushroom
on the wall
in slow circles
scour dilute repeat
her hands porous
never dirtless
her feet blistered
sore and powdery
she smelt
of hidden secrets
a stuffed hoover bag
fluffed at arm’s length
an abandoned pillow
she was like
the mouth of quicksand
still surfaced
underneath
scour dilute repeat
thuds of walled wolves
she heard the
whisper
some would
look in
they only ever see the filth
they only ever see the filth
look in
some would
whisper
she heard the
thuds of walled wolves
scour dilute repeat
underneath
still surfaced
the mouth of quicksand
she was like
an abandoned pillow
fluffed at arm’s length
a stuffed hoover bag
of hidden secrets
she smelt
sore and powdery
her feet blistered
never dirtless
her hands porous
scour dilute repeat
in slow circles
on the wall
she paints a mushroom
scour dilute repeat
a sweatshop
in her silent white house
full of things
she always was
an uncleanable speck
Thread in Three Parts
I
she is watching the sky leak
from lipped clouds
and catches the shattering sun
in the seams of her white dress
she runs home as fast as she can
to show her mother the fire seeds
she will grow all for herself
her mother sends her upstairs
to clean herself immediately
before the men wake up
she says the smell of hot metal
is a ghost we must keep to ourselves
so the men aren’t reminded
of chains and hellfire
II
a red worm stitched through an apple
sits umbilical
a hunched pigeon fumbles and tugs
eventually drops it in water
III
the oldest girl pulls it out her pocket
dangles it like a dead rat
rosy cheeked and curious
they jellyfish around her
underwhelmed by its softness
one girl thimbles her thumb with it
unravels it and plays seamstress
makes a luxurious white dress and scarf
for Barbie to wear on her date
but Ken is terrified by it
what it shows and what it reveals
Dirty Linen
A man should be clean
a man’s filth should remain unseen
a man should be a barren landscape
a man should hold his shape like a queen
for a woman to take him as her own and own him
a man’s emotions are an artefact of hormone
a sin for which he will forever atone
a man should smell of sweet relish
a man should be content as a side dish
a man should cherish all women
for a woman should be respected by all men
a man should be a penned hen
a man should be confined to his woman’s home
where a man is inclined to cook and clean and scrub
for this is how man was designed
to wash the dirty linen of a woman’s throne
I see uneasy faces before me
and of course you are free to abhor the décor
upon the door to which I have opened this poem
perhaps I should clean up the metaphor
we are stuck believing the dynasty of opposition
that everything is binary and every entity has a rivalry
and there is no power struggle more primitive
than the systematic ying yang of he and she
we are aggressively exposed to every day
and I am just following the rules I mentioned before
and imposing the same rhetoric in the opposite way so therefore
the man I call man is not a man more subversion of one
and a man undone is nothing more than a woman