Disguise
It’s not too much to ask, is it?
A kiss that means it,
A kiss that starts soft and quite still
Then tantalises, teases, tingles,
Lingers, leaves moments of stillness,
Soars back , searches,
Sends shockwaves down the spine.
I found that kiss with a man at a fancy dress party.
Dracula wanted to do things to me
urgently, wildly.
But he had a girlfriend
and I was dressed as some strange nun.
Exactly a year later, at the same house,
a satanic pop star lifted a widow’s veil.
It was the same lips,
disarming, urgent, wanting more!
The shed was suggested
But moral rectitude raised its armour
yet again
Sending me home like a thief in the night
without a prize.
Would I even recognise the man
at the Somerfield check-out?
Or will we pass each other in the street, unrecognised
into our sixties and seventies,
Perhaps meeting again at a fancy dress party
for octogenarians?
Moira Hyde, November 2004
