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Alun Rees

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Still, Starveling Angel

Still, starveling angel, hunkered on scraggy haunches,
your neck is clean, your nails well manicured;
your belly knows no fruit of the body’s branches.
Yet the sleek impostor seems the more assured.

He rubs his stomach and rolls his eyes and laughs,
pinching the serving wench on an ample flank.
You groan, and fix her gaze. Her vulgar rebuffs
spread pink along your face, and you smile pained thanks.
You’d call her lady, clothe her in pretty images.
This other fellow assaults and beds and leaves.
You pine your way through lonely midnight watches.
He drinks her body like rich wine to the lees.

This sweet seraphic smile is your only charm,
but wan, too wan, too weak, for the world’s daughters.
Study the dark-eyed rival, dotard, and learn
from his swaggering exit, his dark-eyed devilish laughter.

Page(s) 11

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