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Stand up straight, shoulders back, point those bosoms
but don’t wear low-tops, coloured bras, have visible panty lines, bikinis
that show off your mum tum, stretch marks, a wisp of pubic hair.
Shave it off, present yourself to your man silky smooth,
lip-sticked, hair-brushed, dinner on the way, coffee freshly made
and accept his grumbles about laundry unfolded, a kitchen bench smeared.
Wear a padded bra to hide nipples, an underwire to gouge you
into perfection, rise to every challenge of domesticity, feed your baby
homegrown, organic freshly pureed silver-beet that you picked yourself
after baking a cake, smoothing fresh sheets, taking the children to school,
crying alone on the bathroom floor, blood pooled and a baby dead
and no-one you can trust to tell.