Pomagne

Blake Morrison

‘Be careful not to spill it when it pops.
He’d bloody crucify me if he caught us.’

We had taken months to get to this,
our first kiss a meeting of stalagmite

and stalactite. The slow drip of courtship:
her friend, June, interceding with letters,

the intimate struggle each Friday
under the Plaza’s girder of light.

But here we were at last, drinking Pomagne
in her parents’ double bed, Christmas Eve

and the last advent-calendar door.
‘Did you hear the gate click?’ ‘No, did you?’