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.