MURRAY ALFREDSON

HANDSOME THEY WERE

Handsome they were, those two.
She was drop-dead ooh-la-la
with curves that quickened pulse,
dainty ears, pert nose,
all capped by flashing eyes
and smiles to catch the breath —
o even were her arms
restored, de Milo could
not hope to rival her.
And he was firm of jaw
broad shouldered, straight of back
neat buttocked, bulging where
it counted; foremost, though,
his mild eyes gazed the world
direct, and never slipped
aside or to the ground.

Was it surprise then as
they met that flames not sparks
flared high for all to see?
Her friends came crowding:
‘My God!  And we had no
idea you knew each other.’
‘We didn’t but we’re starting,’
she beamed already moist.

In coming months rejoicing
mouths and tongues and hands
and dainty parts found work —
full length embraces skin
on skin and much, much more.
They could not see an end;
they wed to push that far.
As each encounter flowed
into the next they knew
that ribs are barriers,
though minds and hearts found ways
to join and mingle.  They cried,
‘We can’t get close enough.’
Fire ever kindled fire.

Poets both and musos,
with flute, guitar and voice
they sang their joys to all.
How happy those who grow
their livelihood of love!

Years wrought many changes.
Times over, tummy stretched;
breasts sagged with years and feeding;
joints learned slow but sure
aches come with crepitus;
but skilfully they fed
their fire with sandalwood.
The embers glowed through eyes
forward into aging,
though often flames flared hot:
‘No dear!  I’m quite all right.
Mother didn’t cry
with pain.  Go back to bed.’

When children flew the nest,
the embers flamed the freer.
Again they cried, ‘Our closeness
is not close enough.’
‘If only we could ever
merge.’  ‘One lifetime’s way
too short for us; we need
to be together through
the next and then the next,
on and on and on.’

White haired they grew; and deeper
grew together.  Folk
drew comfort; for they showed
that lifelong love does happen.
‘Soul mates,’ some said, ‘Twin souls,’
said others, wiping happy tears.

Their sixtieth drew close;
he dreamed a special treat.
They still could manage well
enough — despite young folks’
idea, the sport of love’s
reserved for youth alone.
He thought, though, to add
a novel touch, a little
zest.  By hook or crook —
just don’t ask how — he wangled
two Viagras.  By those
he laid out tribulus.
‘Others buy champagne,
Beloved, but let us have
an extra special trip.’
Eyes crinkled like the very
devil; she laughed and melted.
‘This day is ours,’ they’d told
their kids, ‘Tomorrow’s soon
enough for family.’

They had no hungry hurry.
Those ancients knew years long
to draw their pleasures out,
to hill their eros high.
And hill it high they did,
those veterans; in all
their years together never
had they dreamt that they
could mount and mount so high.
Right at their peak a mighty
flash struck her; she gushed
into the brain.  And in
that instant he was gripped
by spasmed arteries.
Out into the beyond
they flew.
           

 Next afternoon

their children called and found them
still joined, on sides, limbs twined
and locked in rigor mortis.

But what cared they?  They soared,
they revelled in their new-
found freedom, they dived, they swooped
again, again they soared
until they spied a couple
reach their glory wave.
It was as though elastic
snapped them to the scene;
and caught up with the pumping
seed-mass, they found themselves
fast captured in the gel,
drawn with those hardy swimmers
through cavern and through channel,
whisked with the winning gamete
through the ovum wall.
The lady bore twin boys.

MEDUSA

Flicking fork-tongued hair,
toxic as a taipan,
tiger snake or brown —
horror enough, no doubt,
to turn a man to stone,
though not before his eyes
could read her full red lips
parted invitingly,
glimpse pert and naked breasts,
trim waist and rounded hips,
smooth thighs and dainty zone.

Some men were quick to rise;
but of those ithyphallic
figures, proud as gods
of Egypt, most were gritty
lime- or sandstone, though worst
were sharp and porous pumice --
fit for viewing merely.

Others of polished onyx
or silky alabaster
were smooth but cold inside her,
though she grew skilled to fight
that leaching of body-heat —
and skilful, too, to limit
riding vigour, thus not
to snap the stone and injure.

She learned thus to take pleasure
from her lithic victims
(they lasted long at least)
and yet she ached; she ached
for no more making do
with frozen lust remembered,
with working up crescendoed
waves of body-song —
ached for arms around her,
men’s body and lip-passion
for hands caressing, holding,
for murmured love nightlong.

[MURRAY ALFREDSON]