Poetic Sex

I think I should regret sleeping with a poet.
Risk seeing my immortalisation in verse -
or worse, the act of love itself described.
All that cleaving, splitting, spearing,
prancing about with his rampant lance.
Petals, rosebuds, blooming flowers -
a fruit basket of ripe metaphors -
when really it was only sex.

He might notice the varicose vein
on the back of my knee, my uneven breasts,
the ropey scar above my pubic bone, the arse
that lost the battle with gravity.

His tongue would trace the silver
snail tracks of stretched skin,
cursive writing, legacy of pregnancy.
Reading my stories with observant eyes,
tasting secrets with his lips, licking
the words right out of my mouth -

I'd be plagiarised.

Would my thighs be pale and trembling,
like semi-set blancmange?
Or merely warm and welcoming?
Could my neck inspire?

Far better to sleep with plumbers
who appreciate the pipe-work.
Electricians know an on-off switch
and can make sparks fly.
The upholsterer comes home
to well-padded hipbones, a bolstered chest.
The cartographer finds his way without a map -
but isn't afraid to ask directions.
The potter, joiner, the mechanic -
 all are clever with their hands.

But the poet, the tender, cruel poet with his gift for words
I'll leave for all the other more courageous girls.