Sex And Death
Clad only in your girlywhites
by Rory Hudson
you come to me, promising
nights of dark pleasure.
Your skin is softer
than the sighing winds of autumn,
and your smile more winsome
than the first blushings of spring;
and tenderly, caressing my hand,
you lead us both into the innocence of first love,
whispering all the while words in my ear,
words that cannot be true, but have a music
all their own, a hymn to the night, a hymn
to all that is pure and still unsullied.
But as you remove your underwear, I see
that it is dirty and soiled
with the yellowish-brown ooze of your body,
and that you are unclean with the uncleanness of the world
passing through you,
entering and exiting over and over,
always leaving its mark
as it dies within you.
And so I perceive
that death has his finger on you
now and forever.
He is your true lover,
always faithful, never leaving you,
(which is more, perhaps, than I can promise) ,
and you are of his flock.
He loves you and touches you
on the inside, beneath your clothes,
beneath even your skin.
In parts that I cannot reach
he caresses you and knows you deeply
in the flesh.
Now he waits patiently beside our bed.
He can be neither hurried nor stayed.
He will take you at last
and have his way with you:
for to him
you never were a virgin.