sex

IN THE FIELD

Lizbeth stares
at her hands

 

opened up
palms upward

 

lines across
the skin where

 

Benedict
had held her

 

his palm there
squeezing tight

 

holding on
puts fingers

 

to her lips
where he kissed

 

his moisture
there somewhere

 

wanted more
more of him

 

inside her
as she's seen

 

in the book
her friend gave

 

a picture
of a man

 

and woman
having sex

 

he on top
she beneath

 

the man's butt
beautiful

 

she had thought
the long legs

 

benedict
would just kiss

 

or hold hands
nothing more

 

we're just kids
he had said

 

when she had
said they could

 

in the barn
in the church

 

in her room
all alone

 

her mother
out shopping

 

or maybe
in the field

 

hidden by corn
but not him

 

leaving her
feeling numb

 

unfulfilled
just them there

 

holding hands
and kissing

 

no fucking
in the field.

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PREPARATION FOR SEX.

Milka followed Baruch
along the road
to his parent's house
and up the stairs

 

to his bedroom
she looking about her
as she climbed
won't your parent’s

 

be home?
she asked
no they're at work
he said

 

my mother until
half two
Milka nodded
and thought

 

of the bewilderment
if they came home
too soon
and what if they did?

 

they came to the landing
and he showed her
the single bed
by the wall

 

next to another
by the window
whose bed is that?
she asked

 

my brother's
Baruch said
he's away
oh

 

she said looking
at the single bed
by the wall
with the blue bed cover

 

well?
he said
what do you think?
she looked at the bed

 

and then at Baruch
it's a bit narrow
she said
it'll be ok

 

he said
unless you don't want to
he said
she bit her lip

 

are you sure
no one
will be back early?
sure as sure

 

he said
he took in
her bright eyes
the hair

 

shoulder length
and well groomed
the yellow
tight fitting top

 

and blue jeans
she looked by him
at the window
can anyone see us?

 

he looked out
the window
I’ll close the curtains
he said

 

she looked at him there
eyes wide open
and alert
his black jeans

 

and white shirt
you don't have to
he said
just thought

 

that after last time
in the barn
it would be better here
she nodded

 

that was a bit
uncomfortable
she said smiling
hay and straw

 

in my panties
when I got home
he smiled
yes and that mouse

 

that ran over
my backside
she laughed
and relaxed

 

and I screamed
she said
he nodded
and looked at her

 

standing there
by the bed
we don't have to
if you'd rather not

 

he said
she looked at him
and said
I want to

 

it's just the anxiety
that your parents
will come home
and catch us

 

he stroked her hair
they won't
he said
I'd not risk it

 

if I thought
they'd be home early
she sat on the bed
and he sat next to her

 

she kicked off her shoes
and he did so too
she looked at him again
then  stood up

 

and unzipped her jeans
and took them off
and laid them
on the other bed

 

he did like wise
she took off the top
over her head
and placed it on top

 

of her jeans
he took off his shirt
and put it on top
of his jeans

 

then she unclipped
her bra
and threw it
to the other bed

 

he stood there
gazing at her
small mounds
the brownish dugs

 

she removed
her pink panties
and flicked them
to the bed

 

by the window
where they rested
by the windowsill
he took off his briefs

 

and threw them over
by his jeans
she breathed out
deeply and slowly

 

he put a hand
on right breast
felt the softness
ran his fingers

 

over the dug
she smiled
and touched his pecker
then she lay down

 

on the bed
and he lay beside her
his hand touching
her thigh

 

and she saw
the sunlight
through
the uncurtained window

 

in the bright
midday sky.

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HIS AFTERNOON HEAD.

Judy lies
on the double bed
having made love
for the second time round

 

that early afternoon
Benedict lies beside her
gazing out the window
at the afternoon sky

 

she talking about
the grocery store
and the customers
and the bottom pinching

 

manager
the creepy fart
she says
Benedict turns his gaze

 

to the profile
of her breast
knowing he shouldn't
but likes

 

her left one best
following the contour
of her ribs
and the pelvic sweep

 

the brown pubic patch
sticky
with semen leak
she eyeing

 

his hazel eyes
the quiff of hair
him laying there
his sleeping pecker

 

resting on the leg
he eyeing her thigh
the dark bite of love
the pantyline

 

still there
she saying
she'll have to go
her mother will wonder

 

why she wasn't home
on her half day off
from work
he saying yes

 

his mother'd be home
from work
on the next bus
from town

 

they share
a deep frown
no more love making
least not that day

 

she laying back
her skirt hitched up
around her waist
her blouse open

 

all the way down
her panties on the floor
by the bedroom door
one more kiss

 

before we go
she says
lips soft waiting
and meeting touch

 

she wanting to
but time running out
he wishing time
would stand still

 

to allow one more go
she noticing
the sleeping pecker
beginning to stir

 

their lips press
and tongues touch
soon to be going time
to stay too short

 

the afternoon sky
a cloudy grey
he kissing her
once more

 

wishing she could stay
not now
she says
another time and day

 

and so they rise
and dress
and she takes her leave
walking out

 

the back gate
and home
and he waving
her goodbye

 

goes back in
to make up
the double bed
carrying her image

 

and their love
in his afternoon head.

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NOT WITH HIM

 

She pretends

he's not there,

 

but he is,

over her,

 

making love

the third time

 

for that night,

she just there

 

legs apart,

empty heart,

 

he keen to,

making sounds

 

like a pig

in a trough,

 

his backside

rising up

 

and then down,

captured in

 

the moonlight,

she seeing

 

over his

broad shoulders.

 

Not his fault,

her husband,

 

dumb Brian,

she wishes

 

it was her

lover there,

 

dear Una,

from Dublin,

 

fingering

softly her

 

vagina,

planting those

 

hot kisses

on places

 

Brian misses,

as she moves

 

over her,

sucking her

 

not licking

as Brian

 

clumsy does.

O to be

 

with Una

in her bed

 

warm and close,

not with him,

 

dumb Brian

having sex,

 

getting there

once again

 

that sticky

semen dose.

 

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MIRYAM AND MADRID.

 

Miryam meets you at the bar

of the base camp in Madrid.

She has an orange juice

and cereals

and a coffee chaser.

 

Did you sleep o.k?

you ask, sitting beside her,

with a coffee

and toast and cigarette.

 

Sure,

she says,

afterwards.

 

Her eyes light up

like lights

on a pinball machine

when it's played well.

 

You? she asks,

you sleep all right?

Sure, but the ex-army guy

wasn't too pleased,

me getting back in the tent

at that hour,

you say.

 

Fuck him,

she says.

No thanks,

you reply.

 

She sips the juice,

her lips hold the glass

as she drinks,

her mouth is fish-like

as she swallows.

 

You talk about

the ex-army guy's moans

about his mother's boyfriend,

how they don't

get along(he

and the boyfriend),

and how he feels

left out and how

he got thrown out

the army because

he was suicidal.

 

She sips,

and you watched

her eyes feasting on you

as they did

the night before,

and you recall her

undressing in

the small space

of her tent,

the girl she shared with

off fucking some guy

she'd met on the coach,

the tall guy

with an Australian accent.

 

You watched her,

as you disrobed yourself,

the space throwing

you together,

each touching each,

kissing and undressing

and kissing.

 

He still feel suicidal?

she asks.

Guess so,

you say,

tried to talk him

through it all,

laying there

in my sleeping bag,

half asleep,

listening

and talking to him,

eyes closing,

and his voice

becoming a drone.

 

Anyway,

he seemed happier after,

snoring not long after,

as I was laying there

thinking of you.

 

She eats the cereal,

talks about the girl

coming back

just after you left,

well fucked

and happy,

glassy eyed,

giggling

and stinking of booze.

 

You sip the coffee,

take in her small tits,

pressing against

her coloured top,

flowers and balloons,

patterns, eye catching.

 

She begs a smoke

from your packet

and you nod,

and she takes one out

and lights up

from the red

plastic lighter,

the cigarette,

held between her lips,

kissable lips,

lickable.

 

Yes, it had been

a good night,

you and she

and someone

strumming a guitar

from the bar,

nearby,

loudly singing,

not far.

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SAD SADIE'S SONG.

I am a dreamer
of dreams,
said Sadie,
a sleeper in beds

 

not always my own;

my body hugs
the nearest flesh,
kisses on

 

someone's shoulder,

embraced in
another's arms.
My childhood sweetheart

 

went away,

left me
in dark shadows,
indulging in

 

my secret whims,

fingering my hive,
my honey pot,
as he once

 

called it,

embracing my body
when no one would,
kissing my own shoulder

 

with my chilling lips,

pretending his arms
were about me,
instead

 

of my own.

I see death
in each shadow,
angels in each

 

smiling face;

his finger down my spine
like a viper's lick,
I am the spidery widow,

 

the sucker of men,

the holder of testicles;
I lick their juices
in my dreams.

 

My hero comes

only in dreams,
his armour shines
and gleams,

 

his sword is mightier
than my fragile pen,
his shield surrounds me,
his lance pierces

 

my cunt,
moves me to tears,
sucks
my breath away,

 

wait for life,
he will say.
My lover swooned
in my arms,

 

sucked me
to pleasure,
whispered
his honeyed words,

 

breathed his
I love you
in silvery tones,
to make me whine,

 

and make
sweet moans.
He showed me
handfuls of butterflies,

 

told me truths
and told me lies,
made me laugh
and cry,

 

licked me
like a melon,
browsed
between my thighs,

 

kissed my virginity,
said hello
to my sad goodbyes.
I lost a baby

 

in my sack
of a womb,
it dropped from me
like sweet sad meat,

 

my eyes scanned it
as it went its way,
the last good bye
carried on

 

my cry,
buried
in my heart,
aching

 

in my skull
and dreams.
An uncle fucked
me from behind,

 

he left his mark
like a devil's kiss,
I see his face
in a thousand mirrors,

 

his voice
in a cacophony
of sounds,
his smell in the odour

 

of long dark nights.
An aunt lied
through her teeth,
she knew

 

I was right,
he was there
that night,
doing his deed,

 

she turned a blind eye,
and with lashing tongue
brought upon my head,
lying bitch,

 

she said.
I am a haver
of nightmares,
a sleeper

 

of shallow sleep,
my arms are punctured
by the needle's kiss,
the junk sails

 

me away,
the men in my life
are sailors of woe,
they drift in my seas,

 

on board my ship of doom
wherever she goes,
my body's tall sails;
nothing makes me laugh

 

or cry except
my baby's touch
in death
which never fails

 

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LIZBETH'S THIRD VISIT

Lizbeth's hand
is on the metal ring handle
to the church door.
The hand twists.

 

Hard to move,
jerks, pushes.
The door gives
and they are in.

 

Smell of oldness
and damp.
He closes the door
behind them, his

 

hand giving gentle push.
It clicks, holds firm.
Small and old,
the walls a fading white.

 

Old beams, pews,
altar table clothed
in white a cloth.
She looks around,

 

eyes scanning,
hands by her side,
fingers of one hand
holding her blue dress.

 

He follows, footsteps
after hers, scans her
before him, the walls,
the old wood pews.

 

They stop and turn
and look back
at the smallness
of the church.

 

Here will do,
she says,
pointing to a pew.
He shakes his head,

 

we can't, not here,
people may come.
No one comes here,
except on the monthly

 

Sunday or the odd
visitor or tourist.
He scans the pew,
old wood, wood knots.

 

Who's to know?
She asks. He walks
down the aisle
touching pew tops.

 

She watches him,
his reluctance,
his hesitation.
Some boys would

 

jump at the chance,
she says. But not
here, he says, turning
to face her, not in

 

a church, on a pew.
Some might, she says,
running a hand
over the pew top.

 

They had parked
their cycles outside,
at the back
of the church wall.

 

The sun shines through
the glass windows.
What if someone
comes and finds us?

 

She smiles. Moves
towards him.
Touches his face.
Imagine their faces,

 

she says. No, I can't,
he says, not here.
He stares at her,
her smile, her eyes

 

focusing on him,
her red hair loose,
about her shoulders,
her blue dress,

 

knee length,
white ankle socks,
brown sandals.
We're only 13,

 

he says, shouldn't
even be thinking
of such things,
let alone doing them.

 

His body language
tells the same.
She gazes at him,
his short hair,

 

his eyes wide
with anxiety,
his grey shirt,
jeans, old shoes.

 

We'd always
remember it,
she says, here
on a pew, me

 

and you, this
small church.
We could come back
years later

 

and view
our love scene.
No, he says,
not here, not

 

anywhere.
He looks at
the walls,
the roof,

 

the pews,
the altar table,
white cloth,
brass crucifix.

 

She sighs, looks
at the pew,
imagines the place,
the area of pew.

 

He and she.
But it is just
imagination,
mere thought,

 

she has not so far,
nor he, just an
impulse on her part,
an urge, a hot

 

compulsion to
experience,
experiment.
Let's go, he says.

 

Wait, she says,
let's just sit
in the pew,
just sit.

 

He studies her,
her eyes lowered,
her smile gone.
Ok, he says,

 

and they enter
a pew and sit.
The sunlight
warms them.

 

He looks at
the high windows,
at sunlight.
She sits and looks

 

at the brass crucifix,
the distorted Christ,
the head to one side.
She wonders how

 

they would have done it,
he and she, here,
on this pew.
She is unfocused.

 

She feels the sun
on her. Blessed,
she thinks, maybe.
He feels a sense

 

of gain and loss.
He has stepped
to an edge,
stepped back,

 

gazed into
a dark abyss.
She turns to him,
leans to him,

 

thank you,
she says.
They close eyes,
lips kiss.

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Utility

On her belt there would be ratchets

with purposes differing from one to the next;

handles made from black plastic molds

that all feel the same when reaching without a glance.

A fissure forms - a setting strays,

and from the loop a tool is sought and specified

as good enough for now, for this:

a chore that she calls a necessary evil.

 

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Years later

First time

Years later

Went beyond the kiss left wondering 

Found waterfalls 

Avalanches 

 

First time

Years later

Our skin heaving 

Our bodies breathing 

He's deep

She's screaming 

Peaking 

Creaming 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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