SELECTED POETRY

by
Michelle McGrane

SKIN OFFERINGS

you surprised,
no - terrified -
me,
when i visited the hospital.

you'd committed yourself -
after all -

i'd thought you wanted
to get better.

sullen silence, anger, despondent tears,
i was prepared for any eventuality,
except
sharp-edged, smiling, anorexic resolve.

your body, turned cannibal,
is devouring itself.

i wonder, elf-girl,
where you find
the strength, determination,
to starve yourself
when there is
so little
of you left.

with shadowy satisfaction
you tell me
you are still
refusing to eat;
the nurses have threatened to
put you in "lock-up".

you proudly exhibit mutilation marks:
angry red welts, fluid-filled blisters,

sin-offerings, skin-offerings,

on bony wrists, on
your neck, for god's sake!
you've burnt patterns
on your skin
with a lighter.

your religion: concave stomach,
protruding bones;
offered prayers: laxatives &
valium.

dying to be thin,
an emaciated sacrifice
to a relentless god -
this crucified flesh is innocent,
it's the mind that is not.

© Michelle McGrane
Reproduced with permission

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A GIRL LIKE THAT

The newspaper report said
the young woman was
repeatedly raped, kicked,
beaten within an inch
of her life, while her mama
cried behind the door.

Two manly relatives decided
to straighten her out
once and for all, give
her strong medicine down
on her knees, the cheeky
cunt had it coming.

A girl like that, what did
she expect? Shameful lesbian
bitch brought dishonour
to the family name,
refused to come round
to their way of thinking.

© Michelle McGrane
Reproduced with permission

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ON RECEIVING A BOOK OF BUKOWSKI'S POEMS

goddamn, he was ugly,
I thought, lying in the bath
looking at the picture
on the
back cover.
I'd never seen his
photograph before.

sure, I'd have fucked him,
even at 73,
but would he have
fucked me,
even drunk?
hell, probably
not.

I reached for the towel,
smiled to myself.
lit another cigarette,
got the
carpet
wet.

© Michelle McGrane
Reproduced with permission

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THE SUITABLE GIRL

The suitable girl is not temperamental,
does not throw tantrums, have rages
in public places,

or swear.

She does not take drugs or
stay out late, she is the daughter
of family friends.

She does not 'phone you drunk
in the middle of the night or ignore
your calls, she does not

make you happy.

© Michelle McGrane
Reproduced with permission

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THE PRIVATE EUCHARIST

The old woman behind the pharmacy counter
passes forward a brown paper packet, her
shrivelled hands mottled, liver-spotted;
the accusatory, tight-lipped mien pronounces,
You young women destroy your health.

Listen Ouma, you're tempted to explain,
you don't know the half of it.
Instead, you smile, fade to nothing,
concentrate on crackling paper, your fingers
fidgety, thin-skinned animals.

Consecrated capsule on outstretched tongue,
squatting in a darkened room, you receive
the Holy Sacrament for Hungry Girls;
a private Eucharist to appease
your bare boned God of Reduction.

Give me this day my daily resolve,
the grace not to let a single morsel
pass through these lips,
amen.

After mass, spiritual ebullience: dry mouth
dizziness jaw-clenching palpitations…
Clutching the rosary of your martyrdom,
speedy strong in occult absolution,
you shrug with the insouciance
of the pardoned penitent;
every true believer pays a price.

© Michelle McGrane
Reproduced with permission

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