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Joan Poulson

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The King Was In

That meal last night too rich     too much
and later
our bedroom chokingly hot.

She lay beside me
breath light as moths wing
eyelids   indigo-fringed   fluttering on her cheeks
pillow-soft body resistant as flint
her sleep unbroken.

Now she paces the corridors
new robe hissing round her ankles
fingers lingering over stitchery    hips prominence
curve of thigh

caressing silken bees      padded   plump
on mulberry taffeta.

I smell her skin     sugared cinnamon
through my locked door
feel its sheen against my palm

curve my thumb around
this guinea’s perfection     lay it
lip overlapping lip on this glistening mound...
but must lie down     rest   my chest iron-bound
by her

entering her parlour
leaving the door open so I hear her
humming her songs
creamy throat vibrating
coiled red-gold braids framing the waxed oval of her face.

Clink of spoon on pot
scooping up mounds of pollened sweetness
seeking       fragments of comb.

Soon she will replace the lid
return    rattle the handle of my door.

I shall ignore her      but she will persist.

Then        I shall call out
inform her I am counting
                                      perhaps give a little yawn

 

Page(s) 18-19

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