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terry-collettPoems
Susie polishes the silver. She hates polishing the forks, the bits in between, the stink of the cleanser. She’d rather be in bed with Polly in the attic. Holding her close, feeling her body next to hers. The cold weather offers a good excuse. Polly’d say, get off me you queer *** otherwise. She rubs the cloth over the prongs, the stink making her feel nauseous. Dudman, the butler will be along soon. He’ll snoop up close to her, look over her shoulder; press his body next to hers. Maids are as nothing, he often said, pressing his finger into her back, or pinching her **** She holds her breath as long as she can; the stink is getting to her. She thinks back to the night before, Polly’s nightgown against her flesh, her smell invading her nose, spooning close. She recalls the moon in the skylight, captured like a painting, the stars spread like ***** on a dark cloth. Mrs Gripe the cook called her a lazy cow over breakfast, the fat ***** staring at her with her cow like eyes. She rubs between prongs, eases along the handle. She’d love to shove the fork into Dudman’s **** push it in with all her might. Soon the bell would ring, someone would want morning tea upstairs. She breathes out, puts down the fork, picks out a spoon and begins the cleaning again, thinking of Polly, her fingers caressing the spoon’s end, imagining ********* along Polly’s waist, moving her thumb into the indentation, sensing her body move, that weird overriding sensation.
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Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 4:17 AM UTC
POLISHING THE SILVER.
Susie polishes the silver. She hates polishing the forks, the bits in between, the stink of the cleanser. She’d rather be in bed with Polly in the attic. Holding her close, feeling her body next to hers. The cold weather offers a good excuse. Polly’d say, get off me you queer *** otherwise. She rubs the cloth over the prongs, the stink making her feel nauseous. Dudman, the butler will be along soon. He’ll snoop up close to her, look over her shoulder; press his body next to hers. Maids are as nothing, he often said, pressing his finger into her back, or pinching her **** She holds her breath as long as she can; the stink is getting to her. She thinks back to the night before, Polly’s nightgown against her flesh, her smell invading her nose, spooning close. She recalls the moon in the skylight, captured like a painting, the stars spread like ***** on a dark cloth. Mrs Gripe the cook called her a lazy cow over breakfast, the fat ***** staring at her with her cow like eyes. She rubs between prongs, eases along the handle. She’d love to shove the fork into Dudman’s **** push it in with all her might. Soon the bell would ring, someone would want morning tea upstairs. She breathes out, puts down the fork, picks out a spoon and begins the cleaning again, thinking of Polly, her fingers caressing the spoon’s end, imagining ********* along Polly’s waist, moving her thumb into the indentation, sensing her body move, that weird overriding sensation.
terry-collett
Written by
terry-collett
English
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 4:17 AM UTC
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