The Last Word

THE LAST WORD

we gave, to love, every sense our school masters
and their mistresses had denied us in their pastoral
country matters establishment, but which some
god’s mortally sinful field residents, in their
hide coats of many colours, had brazenly paraded
before us in their Elysian fields which lined our
slow, daily meander home, lost in saliva reverie.

speaking in bleating, lowing and whinnying
tongues, the grass grew greener beneath their sins.

in the later, orange, autumnal glow, my maiden,
fifteen, a year younger than I, revealed her
burning secret to her awed male companion,
as we pedalled our pink and blue, respectively,
bicycles around each other, circling endlessly,
or until teatime, carefully studying the apex
of each other’s taut, blue denim clad, thighs.

“when I sit on my bike and lean against the wall
and rock myself on the saddle, something happens.”

so we left both bikes against the wall, leaning
intimately into each other, saddles caressing,
as we ran into the nearest woods to become
each other’s saddle; and then on buses, in the
cinema and in the back seat of her father’s car
as he drove us home after seeking to impress us
with the new, local, American style supermarket.

unaware of the treats with which he was
accommodating us, he neither knew nor
understood the source of our conspiratorial
laughter every time he decelerated to drive
defiantly through the blissfully long, pot-holed
stretch of bumpy, disrepaired, private road,
running between the rich people’s houses.

we bumped and bounced, secret skin to secret skin,
to his bragadoccio that it made him feel good inside
and there was nothing anyone could do about it
and that was the best reason for doing anything.

then another time when I became empathetically
emotional, my eyes overflowing with honesty,
his decree that if I behaved like a baby, I deserved
to be treated like a baby, his turning to his wife,
her obedient agreement and my maiden’s secret
whisper in my ear that she was always a baby.

then his posturing diktat that in his house, we’d do
what our elders expected without question or dissent
and again, his wife’s quiet acquiescence of her power.

then the Friday he let me stay over after school,
his early morning departure, my sleeping in, my maiden’s
coveted first Saturday job and my gentle awakening
by her mother’s soft entry, her hand on my brow and her
whisper that the baby slept and she had too much milk.

my recollection that I deserved to be treated like a baby
and must do as expected without question or dissent

& that I declined an invitation to hypocrisy and betrayal.

© James Sapsard 2013

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