If I were a man, I would invite
you to dinner – not lunch – and
delight in your company as we drank
our way through a fine Chablis
before tumbling the way home.
(I wouldn’t realise you bit your nails)
If I were a man, I would slowly
unwrap you, easing off the pashmina
you wear like a shroud, to maze my
fingertips in rivulets over your skin
as you acquiesced.
(I’d fail to notice the bruises smattering your soul)
If I were a man, I’d lead you to
bed, laugh in your ear as you listed
towards me, then push you (gently)
onto the sheets, plying your lips,
breasts and legs with my song
(And in the dark, I would never see the ghost that is your eyes)
And if I were a man, you would
lose yourself. You would forget for
a while, and laugh with me,
love with me. Your facade
brilliant, unbroken, whole.
(I take your hand over lunch
Not dinner. We talk, a sob
catching in your throat, and I murmur
a platitude of regrets, unable to offer
the escape you want.)
