Many thanks for all the comments on this,
Ann,Arthur, Frank glad you liked it.
Barbara,
headboard and bedhead are pretty much the same thing, but I must confess I
like the rhyme in the latter.
James,
you wrote, The graphic sex seems to spoil it somehow rather than impress.
There's
a good poem in here somewhere but this is not it. Kafka meets catwoman would
be nearer the mark.
I'm a bit puzzled as to where you found the graphic sex here, as it's all
over before the poem starts. It's more about tristesse, I think. I was
thinking about a particular Emile when I wrote the poem, but I don't think
it's essential to identify him. I suppose it's more me having fun combining
an element of fairytale with a very objective writer.
Colin,
The jerky series of verbs at the end was my attempt to echo a cat's
behaviour when it does a decisive clean after an unpleasant
experience.Mating can't be too pleasant for female cats, as they feel pain
when the tom withdraws- it's what stimulates feline fertilisation. Not a lot
of people know that.

Thanks again,
 grasshopper

----- Original Message -----
From: Colin dewar
Sent: Saturday, March 22, 2003 8:39 PM
Subject: Re: [THE-WORKS] New sub::The Night Emile's Mistress Turned into a
Cat


Grassy,

I like this feline fantasy. I would call you a saucy avatar........

Nice, economical conjuring up of an astonishing transition.

"Glowing like marmalade" may be a bit far-fetched. Others might disagree.
Double use of the word "clean" in the last stanza doesn't sound right to me.

How about: "....briefly, bitterly then lick clean and forget".

Colin


----- Original Message -----
From: grasshopper
To: [log in to unmask]
Sent: Saturday, March 22, 2003 8:45 AM
Subject: New sub::The Night Emile's Mistress Turned into a Cat


The Night Emile's Mistress Turned into a Cat


She raised one arm above her head.
That was the start of it, a smooth
stretch of muscle, a lengthening of bone.
She was resting on exhausted sheets,
fingertips touching the wooden bedhead.
He heard the scrape of nails.

He lay beside her, drowsy with coming,
and drifted into dreams, her rump spooned
in his belly, firm against his soft sex.
He awoke to a narrow vacancy,
her furrow parched and empty.
The mattress ached.

She left a ghost of warmth
and three golden hairs on the pillow,
glowing like marmalade. Sometimes
he hears a serenade in the lane
beneath his window.

Queans sing when they disengage,
briefly, bitterly, then they lick, clean,
clean, forget.

                             grasshopper