Last Term’s Lover
Sitting behind you in the lecture theatre,
I see stiches singing sea-shanties,
knitted secrets in your navy gansey.
Your long, straight hair is greasy,
a musk-cape that drapes your shoulders.
Aroused, I recall curly strands
snagging on my front teeth,
as I licked your clit.
Your latest lad winds your hair
through his stained, smoker’s fingers.
My sore eyes settle on your sweater.
I wore it in your bed and foolishly I sniff,
searching for feral ghosts,
our melded scents,
wondering: have you washed it since?
You clatter pots
empty the steaming dishwasher
raise your tenor’s voice
and fume bright tunes out-loud enraged,
defiant when I try to speak. I am
sung and whistled by you
in the currents
breast stroke is all I know
though I can float on my back
Your front crawl and butterfly
splash-soak my dresses
long and short, new and old.
I am half-formed,
a wishbone held, bitten
in your slavering, canine mouth.
was never your thing.
Ceinwen lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, and writes short stories and poetry. She has been widely published in web magazines and in print anthologies. She graduated with an MA in Creative Writing from Newcastle University in 2017. She believes everyone’s voices counts. Find her on Twitter (@CeinwenHaydon) or Facebook (ceinwen.haydon)