Hello Escritori,
The night before the day this poem was written I was TRYING to get to sleep and the phrase that is so integral to this poem kept going round in my head, (no news to report don’t worry.) Then I was kept up by the rhymes of a male speaker, and through his voice, this poem sort of happened and then I polished it in the morning.
It just proves as I always say: no one chooses when the Muse amuses.
This is perhaps the most lyrical thing, it terms of its ability to be set to music, that I’ve ever written, probably. It’s quite long. And I get different impressions whenever I read it. And this is as mushy as I’ll get.
We Have Been Married a Week
We have been married a week
And this woman who
Smells of praline
Is God-contracted
To sleep in my bed.
We have been married a week.
We have been married a week
And when we turn out the light
Nothing happens
Because she said:
“If I sleep beside you
And you do not hurt me
I’ll know that you’re trustworthy.
And then from that trust
Because we can, and we must
We will get on happily.”
We have been married a week.
We have been married a week
And you are already ready
Whenever we sleep.
That strange double-shelled
Crustecean, your bra
Once fell from the chair to the floor
But I lament that I’m never there
To see it escape
(With such flair)
Your voluptuous form
For the deep it adores.
We have been married a week.
We have been married a week
And last night you wore a spaghetti strap top
It is the nakedest with me that you’ve been
But you still kept to your side
Though you’ve rights as my bride
I wish you would hunger for me.
Perhaps I was wrong
But traced down your arm
With a fingertip
While you were asleep.
I prayed for the day when you’d turn
And you’d say, “By chance, love, are you awake?”
And then you’d tell me under the pall of night
Of all of the things and the ways that you’d like
And I vow now, I’d attentively comply,
We have been married a week.
We have been married a week
And you have a starburst
Of freckles on your cheek
You skin is caramel and as well
Your freckles are chocolate chips.
I wonder, I wonder, forgive if I blunder
If the taste would transfer to my lips?
We have been married a week.
We have been married a week
And you often wear socks to bed,
But if scientists speak true
When your feet are warmed through
You orgasm better,
(I say this without shame or regret.)
Indeed, O would be my favourite letter
Were I not wishing pleasure for U.
You are my bride
Snuggle into my side
Even if you are shy and feign sleep.
You are my wife,
I’ll gladly give you my warmth
For we have been married a week.
(© Copyright Pola Negri, 03/02/2017.)
The Escritorium 