Charlotte, you weren't fat and ginger...

Charlotte, you weren’t fat and ginger
You were a perfect work of art
not some cafeteria wall
Beryl cook, but
a plump pre-Raphaelite
My Flora, Ophelia,
or Flaming June,
sanguine springs
of tumbling curls
that spilled over
dappled curves,
and the capital S
of your back
you talked about calories
and dying your hair
whilst I
promoted the Celts
and how I loved
the way you wobbled
walking up stairs
how your naked arse
made a perfect heart
inflated to burst
and by squeezing
your arms together
I could lose my
rationale down there
for you
I was stupid
for ‘me’
you gave up cake
and with a bottle of L’Oreal
turned deepest mahogany
to roasted chestnut brown
you took up less room
your jeans, no longer tight
and my world
was less ginger
and not so bright.

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