By LIESL JOBSON
Potato skins, not peach skin satin,
pills, not pearls for buttons at my wrists,
onions in my bouquet, for coming tears.
A headband of fists, not fuchsias.
The lilies should have stayed in the field,
calfskin slippers would have looked better
on the unslaughtered cow.
Our guests can’t take back the gifts
and I can’t unwind 15 seconds
on the clock—let alone 15 years.
Last week the diamond fell from my ring
while I watched shopping centre clowns
and the cleaner swept it away with popcorn
like so much confetti.
Liesl Jobson is a writer, photographer, and musician living in Cape Town.
