Two Women

Our manfriend, Death, in earnest joins us now,
makes a tight circle, edging by turns to both.
Good conversation? Yes.
But, like all visitors to the dying,
interpolates his own concerns and needs,
not hearing centred meanings, retrospects.
He loves his own voice, intolls male boom
into significant talk, hogging it.

A tactile male,
he lays a long thigh to each of us.
Its melting wax threatens a seal.

When he touches your hand or arm,
I don't like it.
A chatty, insinuating, controlling man,
who thinks he's God's gift to two women.

I look at the clock and say,
'I'll get lunch now,
then she'll have her rest.'
His hot, eager body's in a bustle at once,
'I'll help you,' he says.

Dilys Wood

Home | Dilys Wood Poetry