Wednesday, August 10, 2011



When we skype, my girlfriend holds
her laptop in her eager hands
the better to imagine she can cup my face
or lace her fingers through mine
She has a dimple in one wrist, and
gestures often, leans toward the screen
when we laugh, which is a lot
She rolls her own and smokes 'em strong
Puts balm on her lips after, flashing
a clunky deco watch. She'll lift her
gorgeous calves to show me the latest
non-les-fem shoes she had to have
while ranting about racism or telling
tales of her punk days at the uni
We are so hot for each other, the line
sometimes melts and turns us into blurs
She scowls at mention of my latest ex
My mother will never meet her
She hectors me to write, to sleep, to
cherish my friends, to fight the fuckwits
and emotionally retarded out there
After we click off, I lie back in the dark
and think of England.

© Maggie Jochild, written 10 August 2011, 7:05 p.m.