Your Libido May Suffer Postpartum

by Maria Ferguson

The woman at the café is moving her mouth

as if she were speaking. I have worn the same outfit

for the past four days. It doesn’t matter what time it is,

it’s always indigo in this house and a ship is always

about to leave, blasting its clamorous horn.

I speak, it has to be said, with an unparalleled eloquence.

I could go on for days about the beautiful strangeness

of the number thirty-nine. I can’t remember

my postcode. Mum’s middle name.

I never used to drink coffee, or dream in black and white.

These days people speak to me in a slightly higher register.

They think I haven’t noticed.

It’s always Tuesday. 3 p.m. Always a fan on full

in my room, making the curtains dance.

As soon as I reach the climax I second-guess myself.

Do I really deserve to be here? Did I bring a coat?