Mrs Turner marmalades the scatter cushions
before turning in for the night. She wields a knife
like a dowsing wand - it guides her to things she needs.
In her dreams, typewriters are edible.
She rolls them in paisley curtains
and seasons them with twists of indiarubber.
She eats, sat on a pouf made of stale currant cake,
and talks with her dinner guests
about the year's fine crop of bedsprings.
She wakes when sunlight prods at her eyes
with its long broomstick. It disappoints Mrs Turner,
this world of prohibitions, of things that refuse
to yield to teeth. She reaches for her knife on the dresser,
follows it.
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