Every Saturday evening they
stand in line outside her door
the stud at the front waits his turn
exchanges a bold look with an
exitting daredevil
grins at a braggardly remark
mirrors a lewd visual suggestion
then enters, to eagerly defile
her famished love vessel
Stag nights guarantee
increased proclivity
expanded activity
vile cockerels stride away
crowing” I gave her what for”
“I’ve had better, but at least it’s free”
ostentatiously zipping their fly
sniggering her latest nickname
brash in their virile manhood
between the last
grunt and the dawn
she lies awake, alone…
turns onto her side
unsticking her thighs
from unsavoury seed
spent by uncaring bedfellows
remembering what her teacher said
“it’s what people do when they’re in love”
those unkind girls taunted
“nobody would love brain-dead Bryony
because she can’t even read or write”
but they must have been wrong
because every weekend the men
queue up to love her
but then they are gone
no one stays to share her daybreak
no one plants kisses in her hair
and when the slipping sadness tries to surface
when the hurtful, hidden question
the secret un-acknowledgeable knowledge
the glaring staring quickening sickening truth
threatens to burst from her brain
the echoing cry of a baby breaks through
dragging moist cotton in her wake
she dashes to the phantom sound coming
from the cot in the corner
gently she reaches beneath the blankets
soothingly she whispers words of love
sweetly she kisses the tiny head
softly she caresses the cool plastic body
insidious fluid rolls down her legs
indifferently vacating her barren womb
© Jane Paterson Basil
Making it write 