Free The Poetry of Sex by Sophie Hannah Page A

yourself
    over the bridge that separates us –
    no less incomprehensible
    than history back into the void
    where a limp, or squint, halitosis,
    puckered rolls of flesh, a voice
    abrupt as a bedspring, can be shed
    for this dazzling dive naked
    into a fast-as-light vernacular,
    cunnilingus of the internet,
    fellatio of different parts
    of speech – delete, delete, amend –
    while the caches of the fluttering ghosts
    of our other halves, asleep in bed,
    send silent cookies to the heart:
    bedtime now, put out the light
.

To His Lost Lover
Simon Armitage
    Now they are no longer
    any trouble to each other
    he can turn things over, get down to that list
    of things that never happened, all of the lost
    unfinishable business.
    For instance … for instance,
    how he never clipped and kept her hair, or drew a hairbrush
    through that style of hers, and never knew how not to blush
    at the fall of her name in close company.
    How they never slept like buried cutlery –
    two spoons or forks cupped perfectly together,
    or made the most of some heavy weather –
    walked out into hard rain under sheet lightning,
    or did the gears while the other was driving.
    How he never raised his fingertips
    to stop the segments of her lips
    from breaking the news,
    or tasted the fruit
    or picked for himself the pear of her heart,
    or lifted her hand to where his own heart
    was a small, dark, terrified bird
    in her grip. Where it hurt.
    Or said the right thing,
    or put it in writing.
    And never fled the black mile back to his house
    before midnight, or coaxed another button of her blouse,
    then another,
    or knew her
    favourite colour,
    her taste, her flavour,
    and never ran a bath or held a towel for her,
    or soft-soaped her, or whipped her hair
    into an ice-cream cornet or a beehive
    of lather, or acted out of turn, or misbehaved
    when he might have, or worked a comb
    where no comb had been, or walked back home
    through a black mile hugging a punctured heart,
    where it hurt, where it hurt, or helped her hand
    to his butterfly heart
    in its two blue halves.
    And never almost cried,
    and never once described
    an attack of the heart,
    or under a silk shirt
    nursed in his hand her breast,
    her left, like a tear of flesh
    wept by the heart,
    where it hurts,
    or brushed with his thumb the nut of her nipple,
    or drank intoxicating liquors from her navel.
    Or christened the Pole Star in her name,
    or shielded the mask of her face like a flame,
    a pilot light,
    or stayed the night,
    or steered her back to that house of his,
    or said ‘Don’t ask me how it is
    I like you.
    I just might do.’
    How he never figured out a fireproof plan,
    or unravelled her hand, as if her hand
    were a solid ball
    of silver foil
    and discovered a lifeline hiding inside it,
    and measured the trace of his own alongside it.
    But said some things and never meant them –
    sweet nothings anybody could have mentioned.
    And left unsaid some things he should have spoken,
    about the heart, where it hurt exactly, and how often.

Ending
Gavin Ewart
    The love we thought would never stop
    now cools like a congealing chop.
    The kisses that were hot as curry
    are bird-pecks taken in a hurry.
    The hands that held electric charges
    now lie inert as four moored barges.
    The feet that ran to meet a date
    are running slow and running late.
    The eyes that shone and seldom shut
    are victims of a power cut.
    The parts that then transmitted joy
    are now reserved and cold and coy.
    Romance, expected once to stay,
    has left a note saying GONE AWAY .

Rubbish at Adultery
Sophie Hannah
    Must I give up another night
    To hear you whinge and whine
    About how terribly grim you feel
    And what a dreadful swine
    You are? You say you’ll never leave
    Your wife and children. Fine;
    When have I ever asked you to?
    I’d settle for a kiss.
    Couldn’t you, for an hour or so,
    Just leave them out of
this
?
    A rare ten minutes off from guilty
    Diatribes – what bliss.
    Yes, I’m aware you’re sensitive:
    A tortured,