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  • Writer's pictureCirce

Panties on a Clothesline

Artwork by Unknown Artist

I let them waft

Carrying me to places I could not be

Into open windows

Of sultry lovemakes behind white Bougainville

Invading privacies meant for two

And there lingered

Long enough to blush

To help romance the apparent mush

I let them waft

Into kitchens full

Of greasy steaks and unruly children.

Around thick mothers, the husbands wanted to hew

Into lard stew

Mothers with pale clips in their hair

And chipped nail paint

Mothers in frocks of small printed flowers

Stuck in the unflattering gorges at the waists

I let myself loiter in their blunt desires

Of what they once desired best

And now desire most

I let myself in

Uninvited. unwelcome

Floating around the shrivelling, balding husband in a sweat stamped vest

Hanging pretty lose at the growing grey on his chest

His sigh sucks me in

In a flicker

For a flicker

I burn him young

I reinvent lost desire

Groping groins in jeopardy

He huddles lanky

To his blue window and gasps

Looking out to the white Bougainville

I waft Promethean in the poetry of

The ardent artist of the street

The penny poet of defeat

Never were they inspired so intense

Nor perversions purged free of pretence

You could no more demean, ignore

But stand applauding, praising galore

I clouded craving with a female scent

Brought content and happy torment

In satin and lace, sailor stripes and hearts

And perfumery of the most intimate parts

They breathed me deep as I wafted slow

They sketched, they rhymed with hearts aglow.

I giggle mischievous around summer flowers

Leave a part behind

Steal hues rare to find

Becoming them in parts.

I am now half feisty. Half tranquility.

I waft under the light skirt

Of the girl they call Constance

As her bright orange curls dance close to her pretty freckles

My waft teases her undergarment inappropriateness

For I realize she has none on.

I invade her senses and make her

Jangle the red bicycle onto the side walk


And rush immodest into her lover's mouth

At the last cobbled corner in the south

The worn boots crunch the gravel beneath.

Her plump plum lip. His perfect teeth.

I linger a little longer in spaces

The lover opens his eyes

He looks through me

When he wants to see

The girl he thinks he loves

The afternoon sun is ruthless true

Glowering, prosaic, insipid too

It threatens to throttle and to squeeze

The pretty life out of my pretty summer breeze

Before I go for yet another day

In this sultry, temperate month of May

I waft to the lilt of the heavy summer draft

To the turquoise of my Ionian craft

Tethered white boats ride the upthrust

The salt kissed shore, all holy lust.

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