Ode To the Old Lover, Whose Question
His "Did the nuns teach you
your female power?" went un-
answered in that brief hour he
fell back spent. His, the wonder,
his, the glory of that old story. Here
the breasts with which I entered,
pink-tipped and round, and here
the bush, "Pretty," men pronounced
who roared as carnivores
at convent shores where all
delight they thought was stored.
Lovers, I never saw as dead
were welcomed vowless
to my bed. Gone, the prowess,
the eager hands, the binding
spell. Pray Sister, when
you are cold and lifeless,
you will behold what
shell this body was, yet
served you well.
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