Anthropocene

We expect your throat to be capacious but

choke on our toothbrushes: expect

contortions when our

bones creak; expect a

waxed vagina to host a

hirsute pubis.

We wrap up warmly yet still

expect you en déshabille, or

dressed like sluts to complement our

designer suits, our jewels snug in

comfy boxers whilst your waist is

cinched to wincing in that corset we

thoughtfully bought you.

You must of course be sweet smelling and

spotlessly clean, both

inside and out, while we

muss your hair when we

pull your immaculate face into our

misguided idea of hygiene.

So why, after all these millennia, haven’t you

changed us? Don’t tell me that

somewhere beneath that

civilised veneer, there is a

secret hankering for a

caveman?