Mirislavka
Without any doubt
All the village boys wanted her
Those with a pulse
Pubes and piercings
Did anyway
The rest were either far too young
Or too old to contemplate
What they knew
To be unobtainable
Even those feral twins
Who every now and then
Seemed to live in the waste bin
Behind Nikolai\'s Cafe
Or then and now
In the cool shadows beneath
The rogue mimosa and apricot trees
They all wanted her
Much more to the point
Regardless of age or creed
We were all intrigued
By the crash of falling stars
Tattooed across the sharpness of
Her right hip and which disappeared
Beneath the very low cut waistline
Of her jeans or skirt
Whichever she decided to wear
And for what occasion
Tis true we all wanted her
Most days Mirislavka would only serve
Strong black coffee
Fresh fruit, local beer or Rakia
But yesterday was different
She called me over
On the pretext of helping shift
A crate of Kamanitsa
From one place to another
When we eventually got there
She showed me where
Those stars of hers did both begin
To rise and fall
And of course their final destination
On that particular occasion
Mirislavka tasted vaguely of
The Black Sea, wild mountain sage
And of course mint
A most unlikely combination
But one no other village boy
Had ever savoured
Today those high Slavic cheek bones
Almond eyes and olive skin
Still compliment her hair
The precise colour of a ravens wing
And not surprisingly
All the village boys still want her...