HE CAN'T MAKE IT LAST 1997

A WOMAN ND HER HUSBAND AND HER SECRET LOVER IN 1997

Nuala lies still.

Her husband has
done his part and
now lies beside her
out of breath.

The room has sunlight
playing on the wall,
birds sing outside
some place.

She feels used
not loved,
not as Una would
have made her feel,
feel alive,
feel almost
eternally fresh.

Her husband speaks
of some person at work,
some gossip
he'd picked up.

She doesn't
give a f**k,
wants to push his words
away like summer flies,
like an itch
to be scratched.

Una made love better;
made love mean more
than a quick thrust
back and forth,
made love more
than a word
uttered as the end is near,
not grunts in her ear.

Nuala listens
to the birdsong,
watches the sunlight
play on the wall.

Her legs lie still,
slightly spread;
his stickiness left
as an unwanted gift,
dead seed.

Her husband talks on,
his yak goes on and on,
the words filling the air.

She wishes Una
was there,
not him at her side,
not his spent body
breathing fast.

Una makes love
stretch and stretch;
he can't
make it last.