All the world’s her stage

All the world’s her stage
And all the men and women merely players
They have their exits and their entrances
And one woman in her time plays many parts,
Her acts being seven ages. At first the baby
Screaming in her mother’s arms
Then the chattering schoolgirl, with her school bag
And cheeky morning face, dancing on toe tip
Eagerly to school gate. And then the Lover,
Consumed and crazed, cursed and wet
Hurt from being worshipped and left. Then a student
Full of favourite neo-philosophers’ opinions and theoretical ideas on
capitalism, intersectionality, music, sex, art, wholefoods and religion
Seeking soulful connections
Even in the dealer’s pipe. And then the professional,
Sitting more comfortably in her hips now,
Contemplating children and how she’d fair
Her personal currency versus whether to bear
Surprised when a small one comes, her soul snared
And so she plays her part. The sixth age shifts
Into the soft and slippered Aunty,
With spectacles on nose and stately walking stick,
Her figure sways, pillowed out and cute
Her warm womanly voice,
Turning again toward girlish tones, without sense, flutes
And tickles the air. Her last scene of all,
That ends this, strange and eventful story
Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
Sans heart, sans soul, sans mind, sans everything