We collide at a pumpkin stall down Portobello Market.
You caress the silverblue
lustre of a Crown Prince,
I investigate the green mottle
of Kabucha, skin craggy, crumpled
as an old crone’s hopes
or rocky crevices about Olympus.
Yellow peel Turk’s Turbans glower in a pile.
We twirl, we swirl
beneath a hunter moon
into a dew glazed gloam,
tranced by the keen of a penny
whistle, banshee yowl
of a turf-fire fiddle.
Mammy cautions me not
to flaunt my heart upon my sleeve,
so I sit till after midnight,
illumined in her third degree
and first love’s fluster,
embroider right across my tit,
which you and later I will feel,
a plump crimson pumper,
brethren to the thorn snarled
muscle of the plaster Christ
enshrined beside the sapphire
Mary on the parlour mantle.
You wild eyed Ulysses. The twang
of your finger-lickin’ Gibson
plucks from me a young girl’s fancy
as the plight of your jeans, frayed
as nerves, suggests a stitch-up. I oblige
with bird track tack of rainbow hues infused
with moon-curse fantasies, disenchanted
come the morning
when I find you gone.
First published in Eunoia Review