After the war, when Europe was starving
in the rubble of its– you know– glorious past,
this refugee was saying how she’d manage,
against the odds, to get hold of a lemon.
She’d squeeze a few drops of juice every
day on to lumps of sugar, one for each
of her children. She said no matter what,
they had to have their vitamins.
Don’t cry, ladies. Don’t have nightmares about it.
Men make money and women make do. It’s our
privilege to go whoring after sour fruit
and theirs to get off on fucking war.
Anne Hamilton Turner (1925-2000)