Mirislavka

Mirislavka

Without any doubt

   all the village boys wanted her ..

Those with a pulse,

   pubes and piercings did anyway ..

The rest were either

far too young, or too old to even

contemplate what they

   each knew to be unobtainable ..

Even those feral twins

who every now and then seemed

to live in the waste bin

Behind old Nikolai’s Café or then

and now in the cool

shadows beneath rogue mimosa

   and apricot trees ..

They all wanted her, but more to

the point, regardless

of age or creed, we were all so

intrigued by the crash

of falling stars tattooed across

the sharpness of her

right hip and which disappeared

beneath the very low

   cut waistline of her jeans or skirt ..

Whichever she decided

to wear and for what particular

occasion, oh yes

   it was true that we all wanted her ..

Most days Mirislavka

would only serve strong black coffee,

fresh fruit, local beer or

rakia but only if the tourists asked

   for it by name ..

But still yesterday was different

she called me over

on the pretext of helping to shift

a crate of Kamanitsa

   from one place to yet another pile ..

When we eventually

got there, she showed me where

those stars of hers

did both begin to rise and then

to fall again and of

   course, their final destination ..

On that particular

occasion Mirislavka tasted vaguely

of the Black Sea, wild

   mountain sage and of course mint ..

A most unlikely combination

but one no other village boy had

   ever really savoured ..

Today those high Slavic cheek bones

almond eyes and olive skin

still compliment her hair, the precise

colour of a ravens wing

and not surprisingly, all the village

   boys still want her ..