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My Afternoons With Dylan Thomas
by Lyn Lifshin

It was just a blur, like you might think
stumbling from the White Horse Tavern,
the maples already tinged with blood.
He wasn't loud, he wasn't his voice,
wasn't that poet booming on records,
all Swansea and raging.
There was no wild dying of the light.
We stopped for egg creams. He loved

them better than the cream of a woman's
thighs he collapsed in, took
the long-legged bait and shipwrecked.
But, it was the cove of skin, the warmth,
everything unlike the dark coal mines or
the grey mist of Rhemny. I won't forget
the softness of his curls. He wasn't my
type, too fair and didn't work out,

his body, soft as his lips. He was more
like a pet, a kitten I let cuddle
against me. Was I a virgin? What does
that matter? When he held my cat, who
always hissed at new people, she let
him press her into his skin as if, like
when he held me, her fur could keep

fear from spilling and staining the
rest of Wednesday

 

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