Menopause

I keep weeding the garden; no blood flows from me.

My partner’s stomach looks like Buda’s.  I have his smile.

From the café the aroma of coffee reaches me; 

I taste the dirt covering my hands.

I am a good companion; I cook, clean and care for. 

I have nowhere to go in which to wear my red high heels. They sit forgotten in a box.

He stabs my hand with his fork; it’s just another memory.

I laugh with freedom.

Overweight women crowd my genes.  I eat aubergine´s and paint my nails purple.

If you could go back, they ask, what age would you choose?

Eight.  I do not hesitate.