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DREAMING OF TED HUGHES

The last thing I remember about last
Night was dancing on the table to Amy
Winehouse. Everything else is fragmented
Like a Picasso painting, a hand here, a
Breast there, an eye gaping, presumably
At my stupid sins after drinking five or
Was it six Margaritas? I remember a man
Standing in the corner, a dark shadow. His
Face chiseled and beautifully constructed, his
Voice a deep cave causing my knees to weaken,
My pulse to quicken, my ovaries to jump up and
Down like two girlfriends excitedly sharing secrets.
I couldn't figure out if he were a poet or a god, so
I decided on poet, since words have always seduced
Me with their powerful tongues and texture, since
Poetry is the only reason I'm alive anyway. I think
He recited Donne or Byron. It really didn't matter,
I was already in love, already pealing off my clothes,
Already wrapping my silk stockings around his neck
And kissing the syllables dripping from his mouth.
I don't know how I ended up on the table, dancing
As if I were one of those chicks from Coyote Ugly, or
How I met Ted Hughes in the middle of the night, or
Why I was licking words off another man's cheek while
my husband was lying right next to me. I guess that's
why I wrote this poem...

Learn more about this author, Kim Robinson.
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