Fucking in Cornwall

by Ella Frears

The rain is thick and there’s half a rainbow
over the damp beach; just put your hand up my top.
I’ve walked around that local museum a hundred times
and I’ve decided that the tiny, stuffed dog
labelled: the smallest dog in the world, is a fake.
Kiss me in a pasty shop with all the ovens on.
I’ve held a warm, new egg on a farm and thought about fucking.
I’ve held a tiny green crab in the palm of my hand.
I’ve pulled my sleeve over my fingers and picked a nettle
and held it to a boy’s throat like a sword.
Unlace my shoes in that alley and lift me gently onto the bins.
The bright morning sun is coming and coming
and the holiday children have their yellow buckets ready.
Do you remember what it felt like to dig a hole all day
with a tiny spade just to watch it fill with sea?
I want it like that – like water feeling its way over
an edge. Like two bright-red anemones in a rock-pool,
tentacles waving ecstatically.
Like the gorse has caught fire across the moors and you
are the ghost of a fisherman, who always hated land.