Late last summer, I wore gingham
and brought you fruit from next door, scrumped.
I wanted to crunch
and let the juice dribbledown
as we kissed,
and mingle the sweetness.
I had painted my fingers and toes and eyelids with colours you liked
And you licked my sticky lips, shiny dappled apple-red
until the apples blushed. You were more lovely
and more temperate, but the summer was Indian
or maybe you didn’t like the gingham.
I ran a bath too hot,
too deep and my skin burst into red like the apples.