Fetal naked at fifty.
I’ve followed signs to Yield in Ireland
when I’m used to an Aussie Give Way.
I put on red lipstick, tell you stories
of Africa when we were both young
and watch my words seduce you again.
You remember young Chianti;
full and round, ruby red, peppered
with berries. I remember
a Hotel in Kitwe – Blue Nun.
You say your taste has matured,
you now prefer an Aussie Shiraz;
sharp, punchy, still youthful
– allowed to ripen with time.
I imprint your palate with my being
so no other will satisfy – am absolutely
involved in strong pulsing waves.
You suddenly stop
and fold my legs over
so I lay fetal naked at fifty…
you lean forward to whisper
my tongue is sweet.
Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003
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