I look in the mirror—
luminous, as usual.
Or luminous
in my own eyes.
I see the shadows.
The greys.
The tributaries of time
around my mouth.
The body softening itself
into history.
Still—
a goddess.
I decide to consider
what goddesses do
on Sundays.
So far,
I have lain in bed
thinking about poetry.
My king,
my liege,
my husband
enters the chamber
trailing a cloud
of green smoke.
Yes.
He has farted in my face
while I contemplate
feminine divinity.
I decide
I will glide into my clothes—
but the zip disagrees.
My body,
apparently,
has entered negotiations
without informing me.
So instead
I drape myself
in a magnificent dressing gown,
mismatched socks,
and descend the stairs
like a minor exiled empress
to eat
a very healthy éclair
for breakfast.
My children
have grown into their own lives now,
scattered into work,
love,
rent payments,
existential crises
of their own.
The house is quieter.
Except for the dogs.
Two small zealots
licking at my feet
as though devotion
might become coercion.
I go downstairs
to feed them breakfast
before time itself begins.
They sniff their bowls
with mild disappointment.
They do not want
their breakfast.
They want mine.
Eventually
I dissolve
into Netflix.
Some programme called
The Boyfriend from Hell
or perhaps
a documentary
about a serial killer.
The titles merge together
after a while.
I hate to admit it,
but sometimes
I empathise.
Especially with the women.
Still,
I remember
I am blessed.
Netflix told me so.
Instagram too.
Facebook—
or whatever digital séance
I wandered into
at three in the morning.
Apparently
I should worship myself.
Worship my husband.
Worship my children.
Worship my life.
Remain thin
but not too thin.
Pretty
but not vain.
Smart
but not threatening.
Sexy
but maternal.
Age gracefully
while somehow
remaining untouched by age.
Light candles.
Manifest abundance.
Hydrate spiritually.
Meanwhile,
I can barely be bothered
to get out of bed.
The ache in me
is existential.
Still—
I really,
really,
really
fancy chocolate
with my coffee.
And perhaps
a small medicinal quantity
of Baileys.
So here is my ode
to all the other goddesses
trying to survive
this strange collapsing world—
this age of scarcity,
expectation,
algorithms,
impossible radiance.
Honestly?
To Hades with it.
Put on the dressing gown.
Forget the makeup.
You are gorgeous anyway.
Brush your hair
if you can be bothered.
Feed the dogs.
Drink the coffee.
Begin the day
before the day
ends you.
AUTHOR BIO
Gabrielle Munslow is a poet and nurse practitioner based in West Sussex, UK. Her work has appeared in Strange Horizons, The Ekphrastic Review, Neon Origami, Bristol Noir, and Sky Island Journal. She writes at the intersection of myth, grief, femininity, humour, and transformation.
