Rewiring

Rewiring

“Write me a poem,”
she says,
“-like you would for her.”
Like one of your french girls
     I think,
my mind in the gutter
staring up at her arse.
“But make it nice.”
Twirling
her patchwork scent
flowered and perfumery
tumbling in my nostrils.
“Nothing dirty.”
She says, winking-
the galaxies of her eyes reflecting
whole planets
basking in the glow
of her perfect
breasts.
Like two of your french girls
     I think,
never learning more than the
few phrases necessary
to get by.
“And don’t make it rhyme-”
I try
this time,
but failing,
drown in her
breathless and salty
sputtering
on a deserted shore.
Over her shoulder
stalking her prey
a glint of playful humour
the hint of cheek
canines flaring
ready to rip throats
craving blood
“Be nice,”
she says,
like she can read my mind
break through the years
of barricades
and bathe
in the deep pool
of my insecurities.
Soapy.
She raises a perfect arch
black eyes show me
in deep reflection
contemplating the mysteries
of naked breasts
and well placed suds.
“On second thought,”
she says,
“forget it,
you’ll just find a way-”
she sighs,
leaving me unfinished
unsaid.
But when I close my eyes
I can’t not remember
a negative imprint
lying before me.
I’d be lying
if I didn’t
think
Like one of your french girls.

First published 17 April 2012.