Families fertilize our lives.
Like compost heaps
they tend to reek
of rotting household matter:

that Topless Snog in '85
(never ever to be pardoned)
those sticky lifelong labels
('Brainy', 'Pretty', 'Nutter')
sibling scraps (about the latter)
the empty wombs, the break-ups.

Layer on layer of earthy hurt
each stinking heap unique.
And us: the worms
that keep them turned.