Sport 42: 2014
The water’s glitter is awkwardly real.
We lie on the plastic island with single palm tree
ready to copulate heedlessly, except that
everything is swimming in golden dandruff.
It speckles nipples, napes and crevices, turning
kissing into a tongueful of tealeaves.
My penis glistens with veins of fool’s gold
and I worry about the glints under my foreskin,
which bring to mind, unhelpfully, some dickhead
saying, when we were lined up at a urinal,
‘You flashy Jewish buggers wouldn’t give up, eh?’
Your vagina has never looked so disco,
but you too worry about the inside flecks
and recount, unhelpfully, the story of a woman
who gave herself a quick flannel wipe
before going for a smear test.
She was puzzled when the doctor said
‘You needn’t have gone to so much trouble,’
before discovering, later, that her kids
had used the flannel to mop up glitter.
By this stage we’re sitting apart
blinking sparkles from our eyes
like an old Midas couple, our twinkling
assets brilliantly untouchable.