Black Became Her
She never had been attracted to him sexually.
Not in the way she’d wanted some men.
Rather, it was a more half-hearted affair –
a comfortable kind of passion.
The way she felt about her well-worn
sheepskin slippers – nothing like
the overpowering passion she had
for her shiny black four-inch stilettos.
He’d been an ordered kind of man,
a dab hand at mowing manicured, striped lawns
not to mention his talents at washing her Audi
and he always paid their bills on time.
Strange then how her grief was so intense,
so passionate that she dreamt he was astride her.
Sheets still damp, aromatic from her dream,
sent her rifling through cupboards, chests-of-drawers.
Then she found one - an old shirt of his.
It smelt of Old Spice and Christmas, 1965.
Fancied she heard her name slip off his tongue
in its customary lacklustre tenor.
Black lace she wore that night. Her body ached for him.
Her back arched in exquisite agony.