Voyeur
I ask her, what’s sexy? Watching, she says. But watching what? Four strangers making love? No. Seeing what you’re not supposed to see?
No. Thrilling yourself in a hall of mirrors? Glimpsing the ocean? Looking over the edge and knowing how easy it would be? No.
How about watching our awkward shape hauled Into the net at last? The gup of a toad’s throat springing back into place? No. Just watching.
How about watching the foreshore folding and folding its constant hunch of luck? The lone, long walker reaching home at last?
No. Watching a bass string throb and settle at the end of the final song? The island ferry returning late and empty, bumping the jetty?
The long cosh of a thaw? An advancing swarm? No. Just watching, she says and stares as the ocean booms beyond the window.
Her tea-green eyes. Her brazen hair. The malt-musk of Laphroaig about her mouth. The rutting motion of the rocking chair.
Roddy Lumsden Poem supplied by the Scottish Poetry Library |