Bones

[ray]

 
We’d a semi-detached
with not much of a garden,
only so many places
you could bury a bone.
One evening was yawning
when she made a suggestion -
a game of canasta,
we’d wager our freedom.
The loser would serve
and winner be master,
commander, dictator
for a time we’d determine.
 
I had visions of her
in vertiginous heels,
scarlet mesh stockings
and the band of white flesh
at the height of her thighs
defenceless as snow.
A camisole crotchless,
her sex between brackets;
unguents and oils
to purple and glisten;
wrists wrapped in velvet -
the tease of resistance.
 
Though I lost, defeat promised
as much as success did.
I want you to kiss my bones
she said. Not a death wish
nor an essay at arousal.
Bones was her dog. I hated
the bitch. She was testing
resolve or held out a hope
I might yet learn to love.
But I didn’t and couldn’t
and hate all the more, for
we haven’t played canasta since.