Romaine Hill

another kind of ‘night wind woman’

there are, you know, two kinds of night wind women:
one, like the poet, ‘throat of the Sandia range’;
one, like myself, another kind entirely
of night wind woman

I like my red with dinner – half a glass each night –
at day’s end, it casts a certain kind of hue,
never more it is than twenty rand a bottle –
no connoisseur my man

quite Scots he is and not much of a drinker
but for a coke, laced with a tot, at parties.
wasted altogether on the Winelands he;
my half of red, I like

at twenty quid a bottle my gut is filled
night after night, with wind, loud and distressful –
the sulphur in the blend it is. I become
night-wind woman wild

while happily for me – or p’raps, less happily –
hubby soundly sleeps, I, the great imbiber,
reading, working steadily beneath the duvet,
fart quietly, gently, almost inoffensively,
‘night wind woman’, I

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