Wild

 

My Wild Love

Must have been the wine . . . can’t seem to recall

how I found you there, lying naked on

a spread out leopard skin, or at least

something patterned that way. Oh, and that

convenient golden sash. But mostly

I recall the haunting challenge of boredom

in bedroom eyes, at once sad and longing.

The pout of your lips begs kisses, as do

the stiff points of your breasts, stiff

and pointing up as though in prayer,

or simply in the glory of youth and vigor—

oh yes, vigor! Your appetites would

challenge a boy in his newfound prime

of adolescent ecstasy! And yet your soft

golden skin gave its Braille affirmation

that experience counts, as did the continual

arch of your back as you sang ecstasy

to stars and whispered your lies into

night’s infinite possibilities. So now,

I’ve no recall of your name. My Shiraz

is gone. Along with my car, wallet, and watch.

Is youth worth such a price?

For youth it was you gave me

tangled for an hour under moonlight.

David M Pitchford
7 May 2008