Water, by Annabelle Jane Palling

I did not knock at your door on a feverish night,

Parched and asking for cool, cool water or
Even just an ice cube to slide down your
Supple spine and – burning –
Refresh.

Yes, the bursting hydrangeas outside
Spoke of rich, rich soil ripe with life,
But I did not raise my hand
To knock.
I answered, though.

Anyway.
I poured, and we laughed and we drank and we
Thanked each other for soothed throats and bodies revived.
And soon we were skinny-dipping in the oceans of those tall glasses,
Splashing, sleek and alive.

Until you had drunk your fill, then
Your feet could not find the bottom, and
Your eyes lost the shoreline of your glass’s rim.
And we swam perhaps a bit too
Close.

So.
I am still holding the pitcher, and
The door is still open,
And I am unquenched
But hesitate to drink.

Hard To Get Hard, by Georgia Kelly

It's hard to get hard

as your breath catches thick

in the lining of your throat

when you're weak at the knees 

only for having fallen

for yet another pack of

brightly coloured chloresterol.

Your wife says nothing these days.

Broken promises and lies

lie deep in the blue marbled

sheet that clouds her hazelnut eyes

as she hides in her chair

hung, drawn and quartered

on some pill or other - smarties.

You visit her from time to time

but you'd rather see her through a screen.

It's hard to get hard.

as perspiration pushes out of pores

maybe she's blonde today?

you always had a thing for blondes, didn't you?

Sweat drips.

Perhaps she's got caramel skin and

a sweet, aching crush on her step-brother?

Ham-handedly, you move without care

she could be anyone.

It's hard to get hard

when you can't see your worth

over the swell of your stomach

until you catch your reflection

a moment squeezed tight

in the limp, black second of a video

it's hard to get hard.