It's Still Life

The Woman Who Sings on Tuesdays

One eye is a puddle,
the other is the colour of smoke,
her voice, raspy, soprano if she’s sober,
and wrinkly like a quiver after
she’s drowned her years in gin.

Her name is the same as
my friend’s, who says we’re sisters
by different mothers, and if my father
were alive, he’d certainly dispute that.
So we won’t mention her name, but

she was born on the coldest day
of January. Serpent cold, her mother
harped on about that. No one knows
what year. No one dares to ask because
she has this wicked grin that draws her

jowled cheeks back like a hooded cobra,
and we just can’t bring ourselves to ask.

AI Digital Artwork is created using Midjourney. Imagery and poems ©Misky 2023 Shared on Twitter #amwriting @midjourney