– This is my (sexy) take on Wimbledon
On a sweaty Sunday in June I broke him.
Our twinned tanned limbs
on the flat frying pan surface of Court One.
Only the taut, white barrier divides us
his hazy silhouette shimmers before me.
The sheen of moisture on his vulnerable upper lip mirroring my own.
Our guttural grunts collide –
all that penetrates the utter calamity of absolute silence.
He extends, a gargantuan clash of strength
reaching beyond the point of no return.
The slow arc of the ball
descends into battle.
I answer, my screaming muscles
above the catcalls of the baying crowd
stirring me on
to finish the kill.
Again, I serve.
You could hear a pin
On a sweaty Sunday in June
I broke him.