Outside, the vuvuzela cries.
Inside, the feel of you:
My fingers trace a line
Inside your thighs.
Outside, the afternoon sun falls
Through the dust of plane trees.
Streets clear; cafés fill;
The vuvuzela calls.
Inside, pillows muffle sound.
We sink and soak in down.
A rooftop breeze ruffles
Hung muslin.
Inside, time and sound drift
On a wave of your pulse,
On warm seas;
Outside, the whispered screams of swifts.
Inside, the scent of you,
From walking through noon streets,
Bottled orange, sweet sweat
And newly-washed sheets.
Inside, the weight of your head,
Like my child’s,
Cupped in my hand;
Your hair fine and damp.
Outside, earlier, your skin near mine,
Its light and shadow.
You held my hand,
And let it fall again.
Inside, the taste of you—
Salt on your nipple;
Orange on your lips.
Inside, the warmth of your hips.
Inside, the sound of you—
Your gasp and cries;
Outside, the vuvuzela sighs
And groans—a goal just missed.
Inside, the look of you,
A concentrated gaze,
Unfocused, blue—
My eyes holding yours.
You pull me inside you;
Your body rises, falls.
Outside, the vuvuzela calls;
The crowd answers, roars.
Emily Hay is an English writer from London; a queer parent, urban romantic, insider-outsider; writing poetry, short stories and longer. Her poetry and prose has previously been published by Lancaster Litfest; by the Coffee House poetry magazine; by the Riggwelter Press; by Aôthen Magazine; by City Lit Between the Lines; and as winner of Greenwich River of Words.
