have first kisses again in the way
they only hint at what is possible
with slow tongues that are sleepy,
breathless with promise, and if I cannot
reclaim the first whisper of silk stockings,
of silk panties, the pulling on,
the sliding off and feel my hair all wild again,
snaking down my back, or set loose
in the breeze, tangled, unruly, startling
the face, taking it by surprise; from the front,
from behind, then I will settle for being
the crone poet – the famous crone poet.

I will want to recline on my velvet chaise,
to be Delphic, oracular, to dispense wisdom
with artful generosity, laced with innuendo,
to the crowd of sycophantic young bloods,
all smooth and articulate, who will gather
at my feet – especially the handsomest,
with their beckoning hands, their mouths
honeyed with admiration for my faded beauty,
my still-agile brain, murmuring sweetly,
moving closer in the evening workshop whirl,
their predatory clip boards tossed aside.

I will unlock my box of stored up fantasies
and scatter them like rose-petal confetti,
allowing the lads to bestow kisses on my hands,
regal and be-ringed, to stir the blood that still
pumps hot beneath the tissue paper skin.
I will want to feel their fresh lips on my
well-mapped cheeks, to open myself
to their insouciant patter, after the meal,
after the wine, after the creamy sweet,
and jeans – just a bit too tight, I will want
to savour the cool moisture of the last kiss
good night as it dries on my lips.