Howard Firkin
Her eyes:
      You might convincingly look elsewhere
            but they drag you back
and drag the puddle depths you stir and muddy
         and find you, flapping and gasping.

Her hair:
      You might see your first sunset
            she colours it a red
perhaps recalling clouds of red-brown kelp
         until your eyes dry out of focus.

Her mouth, her teeth, her smile:
      You might remember wild games
            played in schools,
the never-known companions, images
         that flash in silver, disappearing.

Her hands:
      You might enjoy their dry touch
            knocking you breathless
and slitting you in one move, arse to gills,
         scraping your backbone clean.

Her memory:
      You might remember sunset now
            and hearing first waves,
the mooring chain, the slap against the buoy,
         the thought you might be drowning.