Those long afternoons spent alone
in a house swollen with silences,
I burnt with longing –
touching myself as I read ‘The White Hotel’.
Punched by a boy in the gut
when he dared me to kiss him and I did,
hot shame flared.
I lied to the teacher about my tears.
The first time he put his hand there,
under the folds of my skirt,
I stared dumbly into the dark
as his breath burst against my earlobe.
‘Blue Lagoon’ fuzzy on a small TV,
and children leering like old men
at the couple making love in the water,
I hid my face beneath a prickly blanket.
I wanted what I fought,
we struggled on my cast-iron bed,
breasts exposed and him pushing
to see what else I would let him do.
I learnt I was here on sufferance.
Men straddle a world where women yield.
It was years before I could relinquish my body
as a gift, let a lover take what I offered.
