This life of mine was polished, crisp and sweet,
And hanging like an apple in the sun;
You stretched your hand and took me from the tree,
From someone else’s garden, swiftly done.
There was no wrench, I fell into your hand
To nestle warm where I so wished to be -
And only now begin to understand
The price I pay for that inconstancy.
You used my body for your passion’s art,
You cut and tasted, harvested my shame;
And all the while there grew within your heart
A new interpretation of my name.
For when at last you reached the seeded core,
‘You whore,’ you shuddered, moaned...And nothing more.
(Undated. 1985?)
