Christmas Eve

Early evening, you called me on the phone
and asked me over for a drink and talk.
I said sure, why not; we're still friends.
After dinner I arrived, the car cold,
the house warm. We sat on the sofa.
You fixed me drinks, and were so warm
and sweet I had to smile.
The talk ran on into the evening—
I don't remember what it was we said—
you moved closer, smiled a lot,
laughed at my weak jokes.
Fresh you were, more ways than one,
and the dulcet note of your perfume
wound round my head, unmanning me,
while you manned me with the closeness
of your breath.
The evening ended in your bed—
I didn't struggle much—
we found ourselves in gentle struggle
beneath your patchwork quilt.
The struggle of life, of love;
the struggle of the world becoming.
I kissed you once more, in the darkness,
before I left.