Richard has sisters – their long legs in tights – 

dispensing fish-paste sandwiches, squash,

waxed-paper tubs of solid custard, other things

impaled on cocktail sticks. The cake’s icing,

candle-melt rutted and margarine heavy,

is fetching up a cross-channel seasickness.

The door to what they call the drawing room

is closed, the girls have scarves to blindfold you

cruelly tight and lightless, tangled webs

and drifting dots, whiffs of winter necks. 

You’re led in first – damp hand gripped – 

to meet him, Horatio, the hero, long dead

but touchable – here’s the arm he lost

at Tenerife – a cold stiff sleeve, a wooden

wrist – here’s Nelson’s leg – warm friction

of nyloned knee and thigh as your sweaty

palm drifts, electric, unseen – and here’s

his eye  – your other index finger’s grabbed 

and plunged, tip first, into a bursting ball

of cold and claggy slime. Laughs and screams – 

the scarf’s ripped off – you’ve only gouged

an orb of orange jelly, warm and melting

on your slippery fingers. She wipes up your mess

with her pressed napkin; takes your hand from her leg.