By Ruth Higgins
A one-eyed woman with a hole in her neck, a hole-necked woman with daylight
shining through, a transparent woman with a no-through uterus, a cul-de-sac woman
with a legacy of no one, an unproductive woman who thinks too much, a woman with a full agenda and an empty diary, an empty woman who finds it hard to hold her head up, a heavy-headed woman with nothing to say, a quiet woman with a kettle full of words. A teatime woman serving bullets on a doily, a woman with shadow tattoos, a shady woman with a pocket full poison, a poisonous woman with an urge to make a list, a pencil woman — faint, quite easy to erase, a crossed-out woman with an arrow: insert here. An abandoned manuscript
of a woman. A woman counting gaps, gauging depths. A woman who counts. A woman
at the bottom of the well. A woman who does not count. A woman counting the days,
the changes, the days left to change. And the nights.