|
Were it not for the memory of that
wicked woman who
kicked and brawled and
loudly cursed her cheap-wine way under
my thought,
my life would dim to naught.
Now, the mountains swagger when I walk,
and
my nights of sleep are aflood with
her being there beside me in my bed
all
foul-mouth full of praise for life all
wet and shining with desire
and proud
as a young boy who just did a forbidden
as I had once so young
hard to remember
beside her listening to that happy sigh
she breathed
before an encore and more.
She has been with me, traveled
nameless
through places since half-forgotten.
My god! How she laughed on
insertion
as if she had conquered some secret
dominion — she called
it her joy after
awaiting all previous time for Mr. Just
Right, a knight
who'd dis-armor then
clamor atop to pillage her well, to
show her his
mettle with her willing
abandon surrendering those treasures
she'd hidden
so well for this a first
touch. I — imagine that — ME — I
was
the soldier she'd chosen for battle,
the tangle of limbs on that
field of
mystical joys she had so long withheld.
Uproarious happy that I
was her first.
Ah that bellowing mellowing first bout!
The battle! The
clamor!
The shout of that rout!
How
could we tire of glory and valor?
How could we wish for a life
after
meeting and battling, conquering death?
To how many meetings had I
carried her
banner, her kerchief, the joy of her then,
her mischievous
pleasure. Nor is it her
contact, that bold and brave sharing
of flesh
that I well remember. The SOUL
of that moment has been my whole
being,
the confident meaning of all that I do,
the song in my voice, the
skip in my step.
Such a joy to be boy for all of my life—
that's all
that I need in a wife.
Many thanks to a very dear wife
for conquest and
sharing her life.
