Tags
barking irons, erotic poetry, hex'd sex, more than just spilled ink, pearl handle, poem, revolveress, sonnet
Because rural roads have no lights. Because
rainstorms meant no one would follow. You parked
the car, turned toward me; as if menopause
ever cooled passion. I’d yet to be marked
with toff, hormones, my hex’d sex. Sleepovers
with your son’s chums left me all pearl-handled,
revolveress. Barking irons. Splatters
on your grip, your neck, your grin. Rains drizzled
on the bonnet while within you wiped from
your palm maelstrom. I said O and eased out
into ancient dark no one could follow.
You said, “Hmm?” Mishap: once I called you mom.
You laughed. Your gravestone calls you a devout
mother. Good. There’s no rain these days, just snow.
][][
Notes
Victorian slang has so many quaint concepts that never get the love that they deserve in this modern age. For example, a revolveress is a woman who, “uses a pistol with a great degree of surety.” (from, Passing English of the Victorian era, a dictionary of heterodox slang, 1885)
