Emma-Jane Arkady
Kissing at the Washbrook
It was cider from Tansey's shop,
illegal Old English in the shadow of a storm drain,
and we dropped the top in the brown flow,
had to finish it there
and then he kissed me, lost
balance, fell two foot to the six inch slurry,
snapped his back on a brickbat;
but it was the Salmonella that killed him,
after two weeks in traction and deep shit,
Salmonella.
"I could kiss you to death,"
yelled from the kitchen
dancing at the test of Tarragon-Chicken.
I hold you tighter,
balance on our ledge
in the shadow of storm.
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