How willingly you give your gift of touch,
ply your cool art, like origami.
It’s only later, in my shadow land,
dream time, skin, I feel the scorch
of something less generous.
How many other women wander
listlessly round our town
your invisible hands all over them?
By the halo light of my bedside lamp
I see long, strong practised fingers ease
towards my shy pink middle England.
Oh na na na, you sing, rock a bye baby,
and pause a while at the base of my spine.
By now, by nicotine gloam, you could
hitch me with one languid finger,
liquidate with a single flex.
Hear my cry echo, neighbours gasp.
I’m not a gigolo, you say.
Try telling that to my cells,
each one a lonely, solo hopping child
with a thorn in its heart that just won’t budge.
While you are
elsewhere, cross legged, hands folded.