Slices
Bread began to slice the woman.
Don’t slice me, cried the woman.
Bread had no mercy for women:
sliced woman is delicious
with husbands and children on top, thought bread –
it smelt her rising in the warmth
of a loaf: made neat, white, and bad
for the heart when buttered by knives.
Some of her was stored in a man-tin for the next day.
Bread wondered how one little woman
could create such crumbs.
Hilda Sheehan is a mother of 5 children and has been a psychiatric nurse and Montessori teacher. She is editor of Domestic Cherry magazine and also works for Swindon Artswords (Literature Development) and the Swindon Festival of Poetry. Her first collection of poetry, The night my sister went to Hollywood is out now from Cultured Llama. This is her website.