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Cathy Perry

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The Reading

I don’t have coal-dust eyes
shining Welsh coal – the best –
the flicker, the glint, the hint
of smoke
under feral curls
well, not quite wild – left
just precisely long enough to
toss, to twirl with a twist of the wrist –
a lure. Practised.
I don’t have an adam’s apple
to fall and rise under my skin
in even measurement
or a few darkly promising hairs
spilling out at the hollow
at the neck of a plain black tee shirt
that doesn’t ill-disguise
a well-groomed six-pack
I have no angular geometry of thigh and knee
the square on the hypotenuse being
unequalled
and no lived-in but nonetheless unscuffed deck shoes
whose laces drape in Byronic bows.

Compare and contrast – was that the question?

OK, I’ll dangle a kitten heel, I’ll
circle round, I’ll let my
ill-disguised curves spill
this lit-crit chick has weighed you up
before I’m done
you’ll choke on the lump in your throat
I’ll stoop but you
will take the bait
oh yes, you’ll toss alright
you’ve met your match – you’ll burn
and I?
I shall have it all.

Page(s) 13

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