You’ve heard the line,
‘Colder than a witch’s tit’?
Well, Aunt Beth’s titties
Weren't cold at all.
They were warm,
And soft
Like fresh baked sponge -
Sweet too,
If I am to tell the whole of it.
She weren’t my Aunt,
But a woman who
Took me home.
Aunt Beth saw me dancing
For an old man,
And told me I’d never have
To dance again.
I went willingly,
And she left the man,
Tangled in his giblets
In an alleyway
Behind the pub,
Taking a prize of his tongue.
She served it to me,
Grilled with garlic butter
And a pinch of thyme.
No different from ox tongue
From the market -
Save in size.
I golloped it up,
Garlic and all,
Butter leaking down my chin.
I loved her for it,
And I never did dance again.
February 2020
COMMENTARY:
I must have been having a dirty mind moment when the skeleton of this poem came to me. Just one word popped into my head - titties - not breasts, or boobs, or even tits, but titties. It sounded like the kind of thing a kid would say, and that gave me an image of a child (it didn't matter if they were male or female). They were in a bad situation and helped by a woman, who at one point must have held them to her breast, initially for comfort, but perhaps for something more once they were older. I wanted to tell the story of that child meeting Beth in their words.
Kat