Eavan Boland’s “It's a Woman's World”

Our way of life

has hardly changed

since a wheel first

whetted a knife.



Maybe flame

burns more greedily

and wheels are steadier,

but we're the same:



we milestone

our lives

with oversights,

living by the lights

of the loaf left



by the cash register,

the washing powder

paid for and wrapped,

the wash left wet:



like most historic peoples

we are defined

by what we forget



and what we never will be:

star-gazers,

fire-eaters.

It's our alibi

for all time:



as far as history goes

we were never

on the scene of the crime.



When the king's head

gored its basket,

grim harvest,

we were gristing bread



or getting the recipe

for a good soup.

It's still the same:



our windows

moth our children

to the flame

of hearth not history.



And still no page

scores the low music

of our outrage.



Appearances reassure:

that woman there,

craned to

the starry mystery,



is merely getting a breath

of evening air.

While this one here,

her mouth a burning plume -



she's no fire-eater,

just my frosty neighbour

coming home.