Libidos washed up like sagging lilos
on a rasp dry beach,
we bobbed about in cozy cliques,
chattering of the doings of offspring,
plumbing, leaks.
Chewed the fat of the latest diet fad.

The men snapped tongs,
slapped meat on the BBQ,
talked of bleeding rads,
brake pads,
and we all admired the view
of the perfectly ridged new roof,

and the new roofer emerging,
unabridged from the shower,
all terra cotta brown and limber,
his lithesome man-boy chest,
aquiver,
as he did his best to hide his timber.

The tide rushed up that deserted beach,
in a surging tsunami of passion,
breaching the maternal shore,
shingling everything in its passage,
and I gushed in immature ejaculation,
‘Anyone for sausage?’

Stella Wulf lives in France and is currently studying towards an MA in Creative Writing. Her work has been widely published and has appeared in several anthologies including The Very Best of 52, three drops from a cauldron, and the Clear Poetry Anthology.