Poetry

Reuters photo

By

Crystal Snoddon

Note From the Canadian Girl Next Door

Dear Donald,

Please tell me, dearest Donald,

is it your aim to play a whipping game

of trade upon my snowy back, volley my borders

with your bombastic billy-club

rhetoric? How I feel you, your yearn to lick

my sensual cedar. Picture my soft pines

wrapped round your fingers. Come closer,

Donald. Peep in my window – I lie languid in wait.

Come, whisper fluid sweet yearning,

waken me with your electric needs.

See if my fractured clefts open

to your deft fondling under my skirt.

Do not just flirt with me, Donald,

shift your squinted glance, those coy

pursed lips. Do not forget I know you,

watched you play from over the fence

at being a man of machination,

a golden lidded Olympian –

industrious, weighty. But that paunch

shows indulgence of the gifts of my grains,

my red meat has made you

pot-bellied. Do you think I am mere exercise,

a simpleton unrefined, easily bullied

before you attempt conquest

of the big girls, the sophisticate?

Yet here I am, watching, waiting for you.

Yes, I may bluster, my dear Donald,

but you know I cannot leave you now,

no matter how your face frowns,

your hands flap me away.

I can’t forget my pinky-swears

with the boys next door –

We’ve grown into one another;

I’ve no choice but to stay.

Crystal Snoddon