First Blood
I offered him a thin stretch of skin
in a dank and dark basement
on a mattress without a sheet.
I was sixteen and high on hormones, first love, and
rebellion.
How I wish, now, it had been in a bower
of honeysuckle and rose, or upon a bed of moss
beside a small stream or at least
in a cheap motel with clean sheets.
But, I pulled on those stained panties
face rust red as first blood,
and reached for the golden ring on that carousel.
Now I ride it round and round
dizzy with watching the world blur by.
