No Satin Sheets
We were innocent
or well-trained enough
to depict the torture doled out
to girl spies (us)
as the denial of sex
rather than its forcing.
Our captor, a spymaster on the other side (whichever
girl was made to play
that part), held,
in his (her) arsenal,
a one-handed glove to feather
our racked flesh–
Not the glove! we’d whisper,
enacting febrile anticipation
from the bed at the back
of the basement
or the bar of the shower curtain, which we’d grip,
as if manacled, our toes tethering
a balance on the beam
of the pink-mauve tub–
Our hips embraced a pitched charade
of rise and fall beneath the glove’s
hovering shadow
as we simultaneously refused to betray state secrets
and steamed for love.
(There was no glove, and yet there was,
for truly, it was all
in the glove–
as if we understood already
that the touch of flesh to flesh
was not a game–
as if we understood
anything–)
The mattress was thin, and where our self-pulled limbs
disengaged the worn bottom sheet, hosted cowboys on
bucking steeds, its foam’s fabric sheathe–
but we knew nothing of symbolism,
only that sheets should be satin in this world
where to not be loved
was the worst torment
we could imagine–
***********************************
Very much of a draft poem for Grapeling’s prompt “Get Listed” on With Real Toads. The poem is supposed to describe a children’s game of sorts. I’m not sure that comes across; maybe a change of title in order. The image manipulated/ doctored by me.
Many many thanks to all of you who have made this year not only bearable but special. I so appreciate your reading, your comments, and, in the case of those of you who are fellow bloggers, your writing and your prompts. A special thanks to those who bought, read, or put up with the writing of, my book Nice!
I wish you the happiest and healthiest of new years.
ManicDDaily 
Recent Comments