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Ben Bransfield: a poem

Powder Closet

Southside House, Wimbledon

Behind the tapestries, shut

in that cupboard of arsenic

pomade and lice, a boy

waits for horsehair perukes

and suet-greased wigs

to tilt back and dust.

No cone to protect his eyes,

his flourpuff lung.

What word does he whisper

to let them know it is done?

At what hour can he creep

back to the farm, white as a sheet?

This poem is from Ben's pamphlet, Judder Men, which was published by The Poetry Business on 1st April 2021. You can find it here.


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