We’d a semi-detached

with not much of a garden,

only so many places

you could bury a bone.

One evening was yawning

when she made a suggestion -

a game of canasta,

we’d wager our freedom.

The loser would serve

and the winner be master,

commander, dictator

for a time we’d determine.

 

I had visions of her

in vertiginous heels,

scarlet mesh stockings

and the band of white flesh

at the height of her thighs

defenceless as snow.

A camisole crotchless,

her sex between brackets;

unguents and oils

to purple and glisten;

wrists wrapped in velvet -

the tease of resistance.

 

Though I lost, defeat promised

as much as success did.

I want you to kiss my bones

she said. No death wish nor  

an essay at arousal.

Bones was her dog. I hated

the bitch. She was testing

my resolve or held out

a hope I might learn to love.

But I couldn’t and didn’t

and hated the more, for

we haven’t played canasta since.