Salad Days

You asked me to wear black.
Elbow length gloves.
Hair stretched into a topknot--
just so you could undo me.

You enjoyed bringing goddesses
to their knees, you told me, liked
their moans and their alley cat
yowls when you did things
only you knew how to do.

Our salad days,
Shakespeare would have called them.

Trees scattered gold at our feet
and women with wild eyes
danced circles around us on beaches
washed by roaring green waves.

My husband prefers me in white,
kisses me chastely, likes my
hair trimmed close to the skull,
refuses to stroll in the surf.

Moans no longer escape me,
save when a chance touch
or the glimpse of damp tousled hair
return hazed-over memories
and then I eat chocolate late
in the night, wear black, dance
blow kisses to weeping trees.

Pris Campbell
©2004

Art: Jack Vettriano from All Posters.com

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