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The Nurse


I saw you wrap your cardigan

Around your hips

And wanted to be that cardigan

Binding your hips

My hands reaching for the comforting

Curves

Of your effervescent flesh

 

Playing love tunes

With strands of your hair

As it swept against

The rise and fall

Of your comely breasts

My skin warmed by the scent

Of your measured breaths

And your image strained

Inside

My cavernous thoughts

Like my hand on your flesh

 

I wanted to be

The last word on your tongue

Before you slept

Instead

You opened

Not your cardigan

Legs

But your mouth

And prescribed me a thousand milligrams

Of anti-madness

And an appointment with Dr Hart

Of darkest Ayrshire and Arran

In the first Gaelic Autumn

Of my Anglo –Saxon soul

And spiritual sickness

 

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