in Galicia there is a cheese maker
who specialises in a compact model, raised
Bruneschelli-style and gently swelling
on a glut of cream, each crowned
with one pert nipple where
his wry, brown hands left off.
I want to catch the next ferry to Bilbao
Just to kiss that man and thank him
for his sublime homage to humankind.
I want to run down Bond Street and Piccadilly
with a basketful of breast cheese, yelling
“Look! These cheeses look like tits!”
I want to shout it from the balconies,
in opera houses and in courts of law,
and drop it into Parliamentary debates.
I want to see their faces. Let’s put it
in the papers, on page 3, let’s hire airspace
on the BBC, let’s phone our families
and tell them there is hope for all of us.
I want always to have it in the larder
and at dinner parties lay it on a board
like some voluptuous affair caught in candlelight,
to see which of my friends are worthy
and which blush and stutter.
Glorious boob cheese!
I want to linger at the table and drink wine
With you, when all the other guests have gone.
I want to moue my lips and lick you
from the tip and out,
as if tasting you gave pleasure
on both sides, then, embarrassed,
paint you in an academic irony
of nakedness, featuring
and an aptly placed banana.
Clare Mulley is a professional writer and tutor, currently working as in-house poet at the Hampshire School in Chelsea after her stint as poet in residence for StAnza Festival 2015. She is also Poet in Residence at the Battlefields Trust, and is about to begin writing a monthly poetry feature for ‘The Skinny’ magazine. Her poems have been published by Tower Press and Forward Press and she has had work commissioned by the Tate. Clare was recently shortlisted for the role of Young Poet Laureate for London.