POETRY PEEK: Emma Rooksby

Drink

The papasan was big enough for two
but only if we were intimate.
You, flagon in one hand, patted the embrasure
left by your shunted bum with the other.
I settled right on the lip, only a short slide
to your lap, your loose embrace
and your reeking divagations on local girls
lying down, offering droit de seigneur,
blent with your one true love, she of
raven tresses (mine blonde), and your failure
ever to tear her mouth from the wineskin
long enough to put three words together.
Struggling up I apologised, to have heard
such confessions from a stranger.
Eyes glazed, you declared that
you loved me, and fell asleep, curled
in the papasan like a puppy, clutching your flagon.