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Cleopatra

I still have it, the book we shared

(English lit, periods five and six,

each Wednesday)

in the semolina days of my youth,

when I was yellow in valour

and acned in complexion.

The desk she sat at, like a tarnished throne,

had the words 'SHAKESPERE IS SHIT'

compass-carved into its lit.

I had immortal longings for her.

My heart was to her rubber tied by the strings:

she erased a little more of me each day.

But I was no Antony

or Craig Reynolds for that matter.

Rumour had it they'd been spotted

behind the science labs that lunchtime

and all was lost, irretrievably.

I would build my empire in other lands.

These pages play a trick on time

and I still think of her now as she was then,

unwithered by age,

her infinite variety

never to stale by custom,

reading out loud to the rest of the class,

and that look upon her face

as she pretended to clasp the asp

to her breast.

Oh, how the boys did gasp.

Oh, how I longed to be

that asp.