He Loves

He loves my body.
He loves to take it home with him
After dinner or the movies,
Into his room
And into his bed.

He loves it to be there while he sleeps
And he loves to see it
In Moroccan light
Set out like a shrine,
Enrobed in incense.

He loves the way it coils around him,
He loves the smooth pink shells he finds on it.

He loves to watch its reflection
Preening in the mirror,
The shape it leaves in the air
And the musky smell it leaves hanging around him
After my body has left.

He loves its cavernous silence,
Its screaming silence,
Its screaming presence.

He loves the flowers that grow and die in it
And he loves to feel his way
Through its slender darkness,
Too come out the other side
Breathless and heavy.

He loves it to watch over him, all night long,
To nurse and nurture
And pause his pain.

And he loves to see it dress
And leave in the morning.


Vanessa Austin Locke

Copyright Notice
The content on glasgowreview.co.uk is © 2008-2009 The Glasgow Review and
individual contributors, and may not be reprinted, reproduced or retransmitted
in whole or in part without the Editor's prior express written consent.