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.
top of page
bottom of page