Claire Booker: My Desert Island Lover

Each time I’m shipwrecked on a lonely atoll
with a man who wields good looks as hotly
as he does an axe, and I’ve photo-shopped
the sea to perfect lapis, breeze just so, motley

range of sweet-scented creeper, sand fine
but never where it shouldn’t, absolutely no
eight or un-legged beasts and fish that fly
into nets ably slung by aforementioned beau,

I come to this small impediment – me.
At six weeks, my roots begin to gash dark
and soon enough, moonly cycles, their messy
consequence – and he and I about to start

end-to-end extravagance. Will rhythm work
or do I risk puerperal fever? Sans floss
my teeth will rot, my kisses reek. And dirt!
Un-soaped, I’m basting in my own foul juice.

I airbrush madly, click, and he’s anosmic,
purblind. Better still, he likes a girl’s leg
hairy and from his training as a medic
he fingers gently round my greasy head.

Disaster. Now he’s ruined: not brawn but tame,
a wimp, a mummy’s boy. I spin once more,
motion-capture Madonna’s thighs, Scarlett’s face,
graft them on, cure myself of every sore,

follicular spurts, throw in a pre-cruise
myopia op, lipo off swathes of tummy
then hoist up a pair of stand-alone boobs,
J-Lo buttocks, hair-cascade in natural honey.

We look so right together, he and . . . who exactly
is that jumped-up flooze, that blondilocks
who’s bitch-slapped me out of my own fantasy?
I dispatch her under a tragic fall of rocks.