Against Coupling by Fleur Adcock

I write in praise of the solitary act:

of not feeling a trespassing tongue

forced into ones mouth, ones breath

smothered, nipples crushed against the

ribcage, and that metallic tingling

In the chin set off by by a certain odd nerve:

unpleasure. Just to avoid those eyes would help –

such eyes as a young girl draws life from

listening to the vegetal

rustle within her, as his gaze

stirs polypal fronds in the obscure

sea-bed of her body, and her own eyes blur,

There is much to be said for abandoning

this no longer novel exercise –

for not ‘participating’ in

a total ‘experience’ – when

one feels like the lady in Leeds who

had seen The Sound of Music eighty six times

or more, perhaps, like the school drama mistress

producing A Midsummer Nights Dream

for the seventh year running, with

yet another class from 5B.

Pyramus and Thisbe are dead, but

the hole in the wall can be troublesome.

I advise you, then, to embrace it without

encumbrance. No need to set the scene,

dress up (or undress), make speeches.

Five minutes of solitude are

Enough – in the bath, or to fill

that gap between the Sunday papers and lunch.