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When I am old I shall not wear my purple hat no more. I shall race down the street wearing nothing at all. I shall wiggle and shimmy, then skip to the tracks along High Street and Broad.

I shall wail like a babe and howl like an Amazon, recite the Pledge of Allegiance, say a prayer for Jesus, too. No shield to cover me, no sword for protection, I’ll cross myself twice and spit at the moon. They will come, no doubt, the uniformed men with thick fingers waggling. Let them come if they must. Let them come stone-faced or smirking, batons raised in the pre-dawn light. Let them march in jackboots and leather, tattoos flexing. They will not deter me; I am past that now.

When I am old, my flesh shall be magic, a feathery cloak of dark impenetrable down. At the crossroads, I shall act out a pantomime, the five stages of woman: man, love, child, mother… utterly alone.

I return to the start, the place of raw beginning. I arrive plucked, bare-assed, innocent and shameless. I once trembled with anger and gave a warrior’s yell. I am here, I am now, though my heart beats staccato; it jumps and whirs like a moth in a jar. Read the rest of this entry →