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Do you remember
the night we set fire
to the tablecloth in that
swank Marbella restaurant?

How the waiter came
running, only to find you
and me arc-welding iron
sparks of rose and wild grape
wrought filigree o’er plates
of pulpo so fresh caught,
you thought you heard
them still conversing.

Uproariously drunk, we
left Chez What-the-frig to
find that stretch of beach
again where Guardia Civil
had said of us how well we
fit. You do not know the half
of it, I giggled, tipply from your
kisses and the outline of your
hand still pressed upon a place
wherein I rode, for multiple
eternities, the moons of
all the Jupiters.

This talk of memories
would break my heart if I
were not now tracing every
word upon your naked calf
with fingertip, the tangled sheets
and scent of you sweet dreaming
I can tell the way you smile
you are reliving heights of
ecstasy we have yet still to
ride and they are pulling us
like flood gates of a levee
draw the river in to power
mills and factories;

the industry of love
and all its metaphors
wash over me, I straddle
you, a shameless baroness,
to rob you of your sleep. My
breast, erected nipple dips
into your ear, your moan turns
into gasp, you turn your head
and, smiling, reach to greet
this burgeoning, this ever
new awakening.


© Elaine Stirling, 2012