THE ENGLISHMAN Poem by Frank Koenegracht

For Geeske

You were asleep, dreaming, smiled and said:
‘No I don't care,' followed by
a gurgle, a girlish giggle.

This was as clear as anything.
An Englishman was involved, making
certain suggestions and being

accepted. At any rate
it wasn't me.
I never speak English in your sleep.

We'll work by trial
and error, I thought, and soon we'll know more.
So I began to stroke

your breast, as Englishly as possible. And indeed
you started murmuring
softly, moaned,

I could have left it at that.
But I wanted certainty and rubbed
your bum with that same hand

from England.
Now you ran away, you fled laughing
but you fled, you kicked the covers

off your legs. So our friend
from across the sea had gone too far;
that was obvious.

You sighed, turned over to me,
saying my name,
and I decided to let you go on

floating between space and time
but whispered in your ear: ‘We'll
never meet again.' For safety's sake.