*

my question is: what would you do to me
to my body
if you had never found out about sex?

i'm weary with the boredom of sexual familiarity
it demands that i make an effort.
i don't want to peel off your lid +
lick the inside
to get the most out of you.
i want to be ham-fisted, boyish,
i want to take big spoonfuls
but not finish entirely before i'm distracted by someone else.
i want to leave an adorable mess,
be desired despite my hatred of baths + lack of personal grooming.

you watch me playing out in the garden. i want you to try and know me.


               *
                                             *

god has always been the weather.
rain beaten, this cracked isle
breathes mist, moisture hanging in the air and
on your eyelashes. otherwise,
she's cold, blue, cloudless.
this summer all the grass in london died
and turned to hay.
i watched the foxes grow skinnier
the pavements stank of the dog shit and take out food that our rain usually washes away.
my friend and i ate soft cheese and bread
in the park while groups of men coagulated
on pavement corners  & smoked,
& played music, & enjoyed the idea of hot sex
they thought
was hanging in the air.


              *

we all left our bodies yesterday -
autumn has a way of making that happen.
we walked towards rectory road
only to find the surgery closed, and the day
becoming more and more lost to us.
west hackney gardens were cold, and still, and pale,
but eeriness attracted me
and i hung from the log swing
while my sisters kept watch.
walking back, we realised it had slipped
through our fingers (the day) and, dazed,
we surrendered. home again, we separated

              *
this is how it happens
too much and not enough,
longing for you and feeling stifled, all at the same time.
sometimes i’m a sex pest and other times,
a nun with a solid, frugal routine.
i retire to my cell and long for god.
i want to send you pictures of
the space between my legs.
i want you to leave me alone
so i can devote myself to writing.
i am only going to improve, exponentially.

i remember the day you licked the length of my back
and i consider capturing it in a poem or drawing,
but then remember how useless it is;
trying to capture our sex in my own words.
(you kind of had to be there).

i’m still waiting, i’m still trying to get things done.


              *