| Word-fore-play
- Recipe for Love
no thyme
though there was no thyme
it was mint to be
to be quite candied
in no thyme
I knew
no thyme to rue
you took my caraway
berry my sorrel
you scent the spirits
reigned on my dessert
cherry the memory
a floury dill
pump
pump it
pumpkin
got a cress on you
improvise, jam the beet
root with me
we got curried away
a hot date
fig-uratively speaking
we made a meal of it
the chips are down
at the sauce
at the kernel
I pine for you
roll me over
liquorice
suck ice
skimmed milk skin
pour pawpaw
your tears treacle
a salt on the senses
Tanya Ury, September 1995
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Mid Summer
When we were done
I held your ghost
inmost
cupped in my chest
suspending awareness,
before breathing out,
in case of doubt.
But it had gone to our heads
the smoky tokes
and self-centred liqueurs,
melancholy alcohol,
exhaled in mist
its meaning twisted.
Although it had been a generous repost
we had made no provisions for this,
losing our heads in the bed we made
lying among blanquettes of dead meat now.
I baste your brow with crushed lips,
You brush away bits of bruised fruit.
What had been a mouthful
Med red,
and pink rosé,
like spilt ink
tells it all retrospectively:
red blood and piss gold,
a show down on shared sheets.
No mèdallions for our pillow talk;
grilled sentences
skewered by silence
and the rapid exchange of fire and fluids.
Love was game
a rare bite of breast
and horn of plenty
saving face,
baked blind,
gorged, without grace or good fortune.
What went down well
on the Sabbath
has an uncertain aftertaste;
common sense has desserted
on Sunday -
Monday, mourning.
Tanya Ury, November 2005
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