She had known men
and the language of them
She had heard all of their words
and felt them grip her beneath tables
Perhaps the way she smiled a lot
or touched her hair, or
even what she’d wear,
would bring it on
This is not a mating song.
When she was nine
a neighbour told her parents
that she’d soon be in her prime –
he winked and
they had laughed
In upper school she’d
doodled secret hearts
for boys that hung about in parks
in packs, ’til one called her
His Missus – for that
he’d taken more than kisses
Hot cola breath and
both hands on – that week,
a few diary entry misses
A decade after that
one had pushed her knees apart
in a bar, as she sat:
she’d said she wanted an early night –
she liked a lager
but had to get home to bed
and to feed her cat
Tell you what you need
instead of all that
he’d said
and then he told her
Now she was older
The sun of her youth had set
but still they’d come
and leave her wondering
what about her
made them feel so strong
This is not a love song.
Tonight she’ll find
some way to keep her back
from the wall –
her voice is gone and
this is not a song at all.
ataraxicat 