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At The Opening Of A Tender Blossom
Clad only in a pair of pantyhose
(sheer, dark tan, reinforced around the toes;
she loves to wear them with, or without, clothes),
she steps out to the pool---a midnight swim,
admittedly, a mere romantic whim
that would have been forbidden her by . . . him.
She will not even think about his name,
or how he had inflicted pain and shame
upon her. His marks on her flesh healed fast;
but those upon her soul were placed to last
a little longer. Such was his dark ruse.
A poet reminded her that she could choose
to walk away. The man who claimed to own
her (follower of "Gor," a baser sort)
cannot pester her now. He lies, alone,
in some hospital room on life support.
He had an accident, or so I read,
and took some nasty trauma to the head.
His body still lives, but his brain is dead.
No one has visited in sympathy.
He sneered such feelings as mere travesty
Meanwhile, she swims beneath stars of midnight
(a rather warm evening of mid-July).
A poet, with a lantern to read by,
sits at the edge, and reads some poetry
that he has written with a dedication
to her---for, and about, her delectation.
Starward
[jlc]
