I watch but mustn’t
breathe your sweet
forbidden hope, my own
Ronette. Donned for out,
visionary in Coty mist

that falls like gold
leaf settling on an
icon, you smell pink,
your laugh a shiny
halo. I see nylons rasp

up legs with mushroom
sounds; from beehive tall
with oriental lacquer, let
birds and bees flutter
my outlawed heart.

Young farmers wait, the
van with straw and chits for
diesel on the floor is revving
by the pond. You scent it,
pony-like. I long to

be you, wear the black flicked
eyeline tails that prance
for action, pancake
thick and rosy, skimp
of costume squeaking over

bum, breast— taut, mauve—
and frosted lips, and white
shoes spiced with market
newness. We hear
wolves, softly whistling.

Sarah Wedderburn

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