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— VĂ­ctor Rodríguez Núñez

Lorna Thorpe, from Sweet Torture of Breathing

Don't still, my beating heart

We're born with a finite number of heartbeats,
according to the ancient yogis, who counselled calm,
the steering clear of things that make our heart rate
quicken, bring us closer to death. But who wants
to be prudent when it comes to the heart?
I'd rather splurge, fritter my remaining heartbeats
on grape suede shoes and a plum crêpe dress,
slide on stockings you'll later peel off
(there goes a few days' worth), gamble them
drinking Rioja and Hendrick's gin by the fire,
dancing to Goran Bregovic on Spotify,
eating your perfect roasties, crumbed with lemon
and thyme (crisp as autumn outside, fluffy
as pillows inside). Talking of pillows, I'd like
to spend more time in your bed, your hips clamped
between my thighs, or drifting into sleep, face to face, foreheads touching, arms and legs entwined.