Country Dance Poem by Sheena Blackhall

After the marquee dance I crossed a field of frosty turnips
My stilettos cobbling on the rutted furrows

The taste of a farm boy's kiss
Was still on the end of my tongue
We'd held lust at arm's length
Short circuited our parting

The moon was a fat Buddha
Clouds drifted across His face like holy incense

It was after a day of snow
On the far edge of winter

Back at a corner of the tent,
On the damp grass, a girl
Was telling her boy that she was pregnant
The doors within two lives slammed shut

Outside, the windows of a car were steaming up
A teenage boy was vomiting into a bush

Inside, erections were waltzing close
To red hot pants