Flow

The pool was humid and clinging

and you were all for

going for a dip with those boys.

And when I held back

perhaps you saw in me then

the hesitation that I’m built of,

how I only ever dip my toes first

into the mad and dangerous

flow of life.

But you were all for it,

stripping down to your

bikini top and short shorts,

leaping in, laughing, teasing,

seducing them,

riding on their high, powerful shoulders,

even though you couldn’t swim.

And I was suddenly aware

of your sexual flow,

and how you held yourself

taut like a bow in its stream,

that could enter men with pain or joy

and the slipstream of infinite sorrow.

And I was burning and shivering,

dragged by my toes

into that fragrant torrent,

a winnow, a flying fish.

 

Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014

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