3 Poems
On Mrs. Peel
in response to Miss Irving’s Mrs. Peel
It’s everything you say and more.
It’s the way she yields to capture
like she’s doing it as a favour,
or graciously giving Steed
a chance to kick some tailgate.
It’s her name—the mm of Emma
followed by the p of pert,
the double e of sweet, and the ull
of lull, kill, sully, feel.
Peel,
as in
the skin of a pear
removed in one piece by her tongue
as in
Hell’s bells in a monochrome smock
as in
taking off her clothes in long, sweet licks
before a steaming tin bath
as in
she can step out of those ropes
anytime she likes.
It’s the way
Gale and King look like
her twin shadows in a studio.
It’s the way Purdey
can black the eyes of gangsters
in her loose pyjamas, battling
to keep the bottoms from slipping,
or use her whipped-off bra
as a double-barrelled slingshot,
and still not come close.
