'How does one militantly fuck?' I asked her.

There was and awkward   






pause.
And somenervouslaughter.
And I knew it wouldn't be that much longer until she replied 'I'll show you after'

*

It was just a few hours later that she demonstrated how exactly one 'millitantly fucks'.

How a feminist COMES.

(And as for the later all I glimpsed, before like the boy in the Frost poem she 'slipped me into' that 'dark of ether', was my own gasp in the air, that slowly shattered.)

*

When I awoke it was to her feet and their strident patter on the hard wood floor.

it was to her face, bathed in the morning light, before she turned

quickly, closed the blinds,

had me writing dirty. little.lines. of poetry in the shadows,

had me praying to that most impure of all Gods,

that dirtiest of all prayers.

On that alter, where so many girls before me had come to be slaughtered.

Come to be taught how to 'millitantly fuck' and left with only

• last night's knickers on, inside out
• a vision of her in a thigh length T-Shirt
• and a copy of The Second Sex

 *

It was as I had spoken, she had decided

it was me next and for the next month bidded time

until such a moment abounded

when half closed lids and rounded eyes

she could ride that loaded seducing diatribe.

(I saw as she trembled and taught as we reconciled bodies and fought waves upon that alter exactly how militant I was)

*

And so, two months later,

at a discussion on Simone De Beauvoir,

I thought, I half imagined I had seen her

nodding through the crowd as I talked on the glass ceiling and why I thought it was more like a mirror.

When I proceeded after this premonition,

I found her more squarely set in the eyes,

more surprised at my smile.

On her T-Shirt was... Che Guevara.

So I realised pretty quickly,

that although extremely pretty

this was not she.

You see? This girl was far too well bred*

* And not as half as militant in bed.