Warming Her Pearls
Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress
bids me wear them, warm them, until evening
when I’ll brush her hair. At six, I place them
round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,
resting in the Yellow Room, contemplating silk
or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself
whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering
each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.
She’s beautiful. I dream about her
in my attic bed; picture her dancing
with tall men, puzzled by my faint, persistent scent
beneath her French perfume, her milky stones.
I dust her shoulders with a rabbit’s foot,
watch the soft blush seep through her skin
like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass
my red lips part as though I want to speak.
Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see
her every movement in my head...Undressing,
taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching
for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way
she always does...And I lie here awake,
knowing the pearls are cooling even now
in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night
I feel their absence and I burn.
***
Hi Friends,
Today's (hot) poem is from the UK's Carol Ann Duffy, in her 1987 collection Selling Manhattan.
April
is National Poetry Month, and I am celebrating by emailing out my own
eclectic selection of one poem per day for the duration of the month. As
always, you can learn more about National Poetry Month or sign up for a
more official-like poem-a-day list at www.poets.org, the website
of the Academy of American Poets.
Enjoy.
EllenLabels: NPM