by Greg McBride

Touching was for marriage, I had learned
at home, and church, so when they gave us lessons
in the gym, I hoped that it would be ok.
Beautiful Simone chose me as her partner,
her skin glowing the soothing olive
of the Sephardim, while I was confused
by the mysteries of attraction: her shapely legs
in algebra, her black hair swept across
her flawless face, a few strands wisping
over one dark eye. The needle dropped,
and the music scratched its way out
of game–score loudspeakers swinging
from the rafters overhead. She stepped
into my arms like a starlet, head tossed,
gazing toward some distant horizon,
our touching of little interest to her,
it seemed. But she pulled me into her warmth,
tight, and oh, the pain — her breast felt
like the sharp nose of a rocket launched
into my chest. It was her gift to me,
while I, in stifled anguish, clenched my teeth
and tried to imagine her fresh, young breast,
so close to me then, how nice it might feel
without steel. Only later would I learn
about the fifties’ Bullet Bra. One day,
we stepped into an elevator. The doors closed.
We were alone. Her skirt gauzy. Her talk
of training in dance, the strength of her legs.
She said that this, patting one rear cheek,
is the real source of power. I could give it
a feel, she said. Go ahead, she said,
and I did, and I knew, instantly,
that she was right.

by Paul Balfe

What an expression:
“He doesn’t suffer fools”
And now I’d met the archetype.
Invincible, or so he thought,
Referred by his doctor for ‘tests’.
An irksome inconvenience,
His failure to attend unsurprising.

There’s no softening the blow
When it comes — except, maybe
At the edges.
I got to know him,
Laid bare,
Over the six months
Before he passed
As he battled with Kubler Ross.
At the end, the very end,
He called for his mother.

by Paul Balfe

. . . . . . . and I didn’t know it until
Missing clenched me in its steely grip,
Gnawing at my very soul and sanity.
Your laughter, infectious as it was,
Breached the fortress of my heart
and I defied gravity — for a while at least.
There was sunshine everyday
Or so it seemed, but I was blind
To the treasure that was, no . . . . is you.

And now the ethereal mists of silence
Envelop my shriveling world
Moulding a straitjacket of my grief.
Oh Mr. Shelley, how I cling to those words
“If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?”

by Paul Balfe

It’s Oxford
Between Christmas and New Year.
I’m twenty and in love with
An English rose.
Never a thrall of fashion,
My army surplus coat
Is drenched through in the
Relentless rain which somehow
Bestows magic on the
Already enchanted city —
The festive lights reflected in the
Gleaming streets.

C.S. Lewis’ old haunt welcomes
The soaked duo,
A pint or two quaffed in his honour.
My coat, slung over a high stool
Emits a plume of steam
Much to the landlord’s amusement.
And it dawned on me what
Louis MacNeice meant
When he described Christmas as
‘A coral island in time’
And how true it was for a twenty year old
On a rainy Christmas in Oxford, long ago.