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Change Of Life

In our former lives, B.C.,

all sorts of issues seemed to matter –

like minor wastes of money, and a scarcity

of storage space.

Never the canniest shopper,

you’d managed to amass

at least two hundred menstrual pads –

and you were fifty-two.

We did the maths, and made a bet

on whether you would ever get

through all those pricey towelettes.

Now, at fifty-three,

you’ve started chemotherapy,

and this, in turn, has caused

a swift, ferocious menopause,

or, as our forebears might have said:

‘the change of life’.

Suddenly, it’s over: the love affair

you once maintained with turtle necks,

mock polo necks, artful layers,

blouses, tailored outfits, fancy collars . . .

Your chest needs air.

A dozen times a day, you grab

the V-necks of your newly-purchased tops

and pull them down, revealing your brassiere.

Panting, you expose your mottled, sweaty flesh.

Our banter shifts: a different tease.

You shameless exhibitionist!

You floozy! Just as well I don’t require

a wife who keeps herself demure.

In fact, if you’re so hot, my dear,

why not remove the lot?

You stretch beneath me, sexy still,

your clothes cast down next to the drawers

where those superfluous pads are stashed.

We take our time. An hour or more.

Halfway, you briefly, indiscreetly pause

to take a pill.