Dirty Weekend

[billy]

Your shoes on the gravel, my face at the door, within the frame like a portrait,
proving through a metaphor what ageing does to spent passion.
Your petticoats trailing like children behind a masculine form built for wars,
privation, yet those lips I know, those breasts I envied, held like shrews
bleeding in the snow, kissed and bit down upon once, recall memories
which my Christian status has since forbidden speaking of.
These shooting weekends with our husbands at play, chasing pheasants
through the woods like the boys they once were, and no longer are, provide
the perfect veil for a sweeping out of old ashes, and lighting of a new fire.
I’ve arranged the servant’s roster all week so we can be alone to love.

Has our God forgiven you for what you did to me that day
beneath the overhang of land, the pocket of earth carved into the shore,
where we lay like victim and necrophile, you probing my cunny
like a courting schoolboy, my spine arching the way a cat’s does,
when its skull is tickled affectionately. I do hope so. At the age of sixteen,
before we knew sin, you were that much kinder with me, undoing your blouse
like Houdini breaking the locks on his long box. Now our passion
is fraught with rage, as moments are stolen while the men are hunting,
my winces of pain and cries of pleasure mingling with shotgun blasts.
As sex and violence collude, I scream, you scream, and it loses meaning.

simply excellent POV poem of a fem on fem clandestine relations ship.
i loved the way you used cunny. i really enjoyed it jack.
it has a feel of bygone times mingled with the modern gentry.

the images portrayed are almost perfect in their execution. the blouse/houdini, the working on the roster, the cat's arch. all original all evocative images that work in painting a picture. it def has an upper class feel to it or what we could imgine is an upper class love affair.
very publishable.