An Apology

I want an apology.
For the gloss wrapped varnish
of womans magazines.

For the fish slick pages
of fake dreams, models
like showroom cars,

with their red, slashed
gloss of beguiling charms,
come hither dressed in

children’s jeans.
I want an apology
for the girl,

splaying the weight of her thighs
on a gym seat, frowning in a mirror
and connecting up the

place at which they meet with
skimming the calories of breakfast.
For the long-fast

of the woman shivering in spring,
examining her wrist
like a witch through railings .

For the witch,
who’s really just a
woman over 30,

sensing the new moon of
an old religion, and the icons
turning against her – pointing

their bone milk sticks
at the lines that she’s made
whilst falling in love and

breaking her heart and
having a future –
and calling them ugly.

For The Snow Queen –
happy to be childless
and The White Witch –

carving a world from the ribs
of male morality.
For the blood on her gown

and the hooves in her face
and the maw of a lion.
For the old crone,

and the weird sisters
and the 4 siblings
that couldn’t all be

Cinderella:
for the women who fall
so she can stand

I want an apology.