POEM: Warming Her Pearls by Carol Ann Duffy

    Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress
    bids me wear them, warm them, until evening
    when I’ll brush her hair. At six, I place them
    round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,

    resting in the Yellow Room, contemplating silk
    or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself
    whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering
    each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.

    She’s beautiful. I dream about her
    in my attic bed; picture her dancing
    with tall men, puzzled by my faint, persistent scent
    beneath her French perfume, her milky stones.

    I dust her shoulders with a rabbit’s foot,
    watch the soft blush seep through her skin
    like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass
    my red lips part as though I want to speak.

    Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see
    her every movement in my head…. Undressing,
    taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching
    for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way

    she always does…. And I lie here awake,
    knowing the pearls are cooling even now
    in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night
    I feel their absence and I burn.