In which her body was a
question-mark
querying her lies; her mouth a
ballot-box that bit the hand that
fed. Her eyes? They swivelled
for a jackpot win. Her heart was
a stolen purse;
her rhetoric an empty vicarage,
the windows smashed.
Then her feet grew sharp
stilettos, awkward.
Then she had balls, believe it.
When she woke,
her nose was bloody, difficult.
The furious young
ran towards her through the
fields of wheat.

– Carol Ann Duffy