Last Summer

Last Summer

Oh, hello and look it’s you:

you were that one. That man.

Blowing kisses last summer,

looking hungry at my curves

undressing with your sex eyes,

inches and plunges, sly looks,

tip of your tongue to say it,

mouth it. I could tell the way

you didn’t stare, looked away

unquickly, following wire traces,

the bitten straps under skimpy

dresses as I turned my back

on you, to serve you daily.

Checked with expert skill,

peeled me slowly, silver birch,

all quivery as I was stripped

of bark, with my dirty looks,

taking your silky cigarettes,

sucking sticky satin smoke

through damp-white teeth,

leaning forward for just you.

Fold my arms here, beneath,

pushing them just very upwards

slightly, yes quite far enough,

peek at dark valley between

unspoken vows of much more.

Open lips. Pale pink blusher,

unshaven twists of gusset wisps,

had I any secret treats, thrills

to fill those long wet nights,

slip anything open mouthed,

thick and hot upon my tongue

to tickle watering taste buds,

sipped it, felt squeezing hands

tease open clasps, unzip, grip

tight legs within dripping thighs

bend over, scream quiet cries?

I have a partner now, creative

in work, making small figurines

from pure plastic. He cools

hot liquid, fills tiny moulds.

It sets, hardens into folds.

He’s such a catch, I’m hooked.

Bagged up in his fishing nets,

last summer went like cigarettes.