Fiona Ritchie Walker
Pomade
In Georgian London, rich women used bear fat as a hair product,
sending servants to watch barbers remove it, guaranteeing its authenticity.
Cut and skinned, boiled and hung,
this hairless ghost still dreams the green
of the Russian forest where it was born,
while I stand in the crowd,
empty gallipot waiting to be filled;
the coins in my purse weigh heavy.
An ounce of this bear’s slaughtered life
could fill my mother’s kitchen
with four pounds of beef, fresh butter, sugar, tea,
yet still have change remaining.
I try to distract my senses with memories
of her sweet bake as I breath in air
thick with the sour stench I will carry home,
mask with rose oil, Artemesia,
ready for midnight when, wig removed,
my hands must rub this potion upon
my mistress’s pox head while she prays
for fine hair, growth and restoration.
I see the glee in the barber’s eyes
as the fat is cut and his money bag fills,
his knowing smile tells me
all is fake and frippery,
the wild imaginings of those who follow
the latest London fancies.
Two streets away in a modest yard
I find no queue, fill my pot
with cheap pig tallow, carry back
this different stink to disguise
with my scented blending
for fat is fat, no matter what the price,
and though my actions are trickery and theft,
tonight, as my hands massage their nightly duty,
I will know that pots are full
and simmering on my mother’s stove,
all empty bellies fed.