In Prague After the Iron Curtain has Fallen

by Rachel Thompson

The printed sheets paint
the twin beds
a vulgar
swirl of colour,
the only bright colour
in this dorm-cum-hostel.

The dullbrown radiobox
sternly installed on the wall
concurs with the furnishings.

We giggle,
take turns barking
soviet dictates, pretend
that our rasped orders
crackle from the carpeted speakers,
imagine a burly comrade
in her beige skirtsuit
listening in
as we push
the two wobbly
beds together.

I stretch over you
and we connect
violently
as I reach
one arm up
to the bright bulb
that bears down on us
and my other arm
into the rigid mattress
beneath you.

Your voice,
reckless,
as you move your hips
in a revolution
that makes the cheap
bed frame bang bang bang
against the wall.

I am overthrown,
muffling my manifesto
into a rough
pillowcase.