for Tara
A girl in coral and horn glasses

is discussing the relative frequency

of her massages and orgasms,

and how protein shakes

are made from cattle hearts,

and how the sniffer dogs

might find the Valium in her handbag.
It’s an Indian Summer, and the fairylights

asphyxiate a tree, the bistro buzzers

skitter on the tabletops

and she leans in close,

and chews her plastic straw

and lets her eyes grow wide

on the nervous man beside her.
She tells him

about a recent wedding, where both parties

looked like they were eight months pregnant

and how she’s never understood

why lemons cost much less than limes

and that she’s still black and blue

from horse-riding

and this pub really changes of a Friday

and she never should have listened to her mother.
Three women haul their prams onto the balcony

and shake bottles of formula

and order bloody marys.

A girl in horn-rimmed glasses and coral nails

grabs the man beside her by his nervous hand

and leads him out into the street.