Poetry by Ella B. Winters

The restless woman, finally resting 

The restless woman isn't made of flesh 
and bone; she is pure 
energy. Every day 
she cleans strangers' homes,
looks after grandkids, 
calls quiet friends, 
brings soup to sick neighbours, 
remembers the postman's birthday, 
tends to her own 
elderly mother, who mostly doesn't 
recognise her, but curses when she does.

The restless woman never asks
for help, and curtly declines
when it’s offered. She is 
as capable as a new-born 
viper, gracefully gliding 
through harsh desert sand
in silence, hard scales shielding
the soft underbelly, 
keeping everyone 
at a quick tongue’s length. 
This care-full woman
is care-less; careless 
with herself. 

From a distance, everyone watches, 
waiting for what they know 
is coming, the house
of cards collapsing
on the spotless floor, 
with no one to witness 
apart from her 
mother from the jail 
of her bed. Lying in parallel:
immobile      breathless
 helpless       cold
confused      still

The restless woman dissolving 
into the frantic particles
which made her, claiming a full stop 
inaccessible in any other state.
She'd be so mad about the mess
she cannot fix.

When I was ten, 

no one assaulted me. 
A man did not smile at me
in a way that made me uncomfortable,
or asked me if I have a boyfriend,
beckoning me to his knee. 
A stranger did not graze 
my budding chest
as though by accident, or grope
my thigh under the cover 
of the lace table cloth. 
No one shouted things 
I was too young to understand 
when I crossed the road, clammy hand 
wrapped inside my mother's. 
When I was ten, 
no one assaulted me, and yet
I know the look
in every photo, I feel 
each smile stretch until skin 
cracks, small body trying to pull
away, to disappear 
as the shutter clicks
again, 
and again. 

Ella B. Winters (she/they) is a social worker, researcher, and writer, living on the South-East coast of England with her partner and their sausage dog. Her poetry often explores themes of identity, memory and belonging. It has been published in The Aftershock Review, Frozen Sea, Full House Literary, Black Iris, Wildscape Literary, and elsewhere, and was twice nominated for the Pushcart prize.