The Rex
It was 1962, in Anstruther,
with Eileen MacIntyre who snorted
when she spoke. I wore my floppy velvet
hat that I refused to use fleaspray on
and she had her dung-yard wellies, so
not many sat near us. And the rest
moved when we brought out our sardines
and started cracking the boiled eggs
on the armrests. And the place emptied
when she opened up in her opera baritone
about cunnilingus not being great
when Morag had just done an all-nighter
in the lambing shed. I slept through the film
– something with David Niven in, as ever –
my head cushioned against her missing
left breast, the armrest welding in
like another rib. Barbour was embossed
backwards on my cheek when I woke – her
carrying me up the back-lanes home.
Page(s) 23
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