Lizbeth stares
at her hands


opened up
palms upward


lines across
the skin where


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


she had thought
the long legs


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


just them there


holding hands
and kissing


no fucking
in the field.

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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


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


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
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
the uncurtained window


in the bright
midday sky.

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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


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
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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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,



softly her



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 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.



she says,



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,


and talking to him,

eyes closing,

and his voice

becoming a drone.



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,


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,



Yes, it had been

a good night,

you and she

and someone

strumming a guitar

from the bar,


loudly singing,

not far.

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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,


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,
my breath away,


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


sucked me
to pleasure,
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,
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,
in my heart,


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 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


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
mere thought,


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


compulsion to
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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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 



First time

Years later

Our skin heaving 

Our bodies breathing 

He's deep

She's screaming 











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