Monthly Archives: May 2016

Scents and Sensibility

It only takes a light drizzle to

ignite the garden smells

wriggling through the open door to

meet the slowly-maturing scent of a

leg of lamb roasting full of

garlic and rosemary.

 

Tonight we will eat our fill, the

tang of mint already on my tongue, and

tomorrow, I just know, there will be a

sudden rash of roses.

Causal Sex

That first time when we had

just been introduced and we found

so many things we both loved and

couldn’t stop talking so that

when you were about to leave I found the

courage to ask you to

that party up in the hills where we

kissed in the dark garden

left quietly

kissed madly on my friend’s sofa

your breasts bare but your

hand stopping mine

your libertine self for the first time

knowing this shouldn’t just be

casual sex.

“By Cock, they are to blame.”

Each night I dread putting on that costume,

pulling on that character, her plain

shift, knee-length stockings, the hated

“pair-of-bodies”, farthingale, bum-roll,

petticoat, kirtle, partlet, all topped with the

splendid silk gown and for “authenticity”

no knickers, so that I feel

naked despite so much clothing, so

obsessed with my bare sex, so

alive to “country matters”.

 

I think of the boys who played my part but

with a part I didn’t have, dangling—

did they have some codpiece, some

protection I am not allowed?

“Beginners” doesn’t mean me so

finally finished I can look at myself:

I am 26 but look 16 so if I were her I

could be married and

dead of my fourth child by now and

I think of it…..No

 

I think on’t. Think of being just a

poppet (but a poppet with thoughts and

hormones) bred to be bred,

pimped by my family for favours,

being prim and proper yet

panting like a bitch in heat when the

moment was propitious, and it doesn’t help that the

hero is hot, the lights broiling, the

clothes heavy and my inner nakedness a

weight within me, like lead.

 

The words strip me, stripe me: I look

66 in the mirror as the dresser

removes the baggage, leaving me my

shift for modesty, though what

modesty is left after such shredding?

Later there will be a club, me

rubbing myself against my boy, trying to

rub her off me, be 16 again, alive,

unharboured anywhere, an

ocean calling me.

 

But he will pull me to him, whisper

“Ophelia tits?”, snigger, and I will

suddenly be back on that stage in my

wet shift, amongst all those

other dead bodies.

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