So, cystitis again, I’m swearing fiercely
in the bathroom, bent double, barely moving
and nothing. No. Not a drop.
It’s dark. I’m desperately drinking cranberry
(which I hate) and hating him for holding me
so tightly, so tenderly while infection took hold.
It burns! I run a bath and use a board
as a desk like David’s The Death of Marat.
In these moments I remember my mum’s advice:
slip out after sex and spend some pennies –
I was worried waddling out just wouldn’t
be sexy so stayed cuddled up instead.
I call the clinic, count the hours… Ohh
Amour! Amour! Is this what is meant by after-glow?
By Ella Frears
Ella Frears is a poet and visual artist based in south-east London. She was shortlisted for Young Poet Laureate for London (2014) and has had poetry published in BRAND, Lighthouse,The Stockholm Review of Literature,The Emma Press and Poems in Which. Ella is an associate board member for Magma Poetry and is currently Poet in Residence at Knole House in Kent. www.ellafrears.co.uk
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