Carbon dating

Nose pressed to pillow,
she breathes him in: her first man.

He smells of campfires after rain,
burnt toast, freshly dug peat. 

Brushing the charcoal from her breasts,
she marvels at the sudden roar of piss –
black, no doubt, as molasses;

admires the boldness of his line
through the bathroom door:

a shorter pose,
so no time to go too badly wrong;
imagines their lives together--

what he saves on clothes
they’ll spend on materials:
erasers, A2 portfolios, paper;

arguments will erupt over the hairspray
- but I’ve run out of fixative, he’ll whine -
and his burnt-to-a-crisp meals

but the sex will be great
between sheets
the indelible grey of a winter sky:

there are advantages, she realizes,
in technical limitations, her disregard
for (absolute) anatomical correctness.

---

Slipping back into bed with a sigh,
he arranges an implied thigh
along the length of hers.

Published in Purple Patch

http://www.purplepatchpoetry.co.uk/