Sestina #1
His hands on me, that first touch,
Weighted down with gentle shame,
And then the nausea and the pain,
The thrill of conquest in his eyes,
Mine brimmed and rimmed with supple joy,
He did not know he was my first.
Later, washing, there came more shame,
And on reflection, waves of joy,
He did not know he was my first,
That pleasure that was trembling pain,
The sallow mist that dewed my eyes,
And all of this from simple touch.
No one told me how much pain
Would remind of purest joy,
He did not know he was my first,
I would lie there, glassy-eyed,
Drunken, drunken, all on touch,
Hidden away from any shame.
The ones that followed stole my pain,
Used for themselves all my joy,
I grew numb to loving touch,
Living in a sheath of shame,
They all knew they weren’t my first,
And I found it hard to meet their eyes.
Then the one who treasured touch,
Who cried to cause me any pain,
He lived his life in outraged joy,
I panged that he was not my first,
Nightly, I searched his lidded eyes,
Confused to find there was no shame.
I broke that man who caused no pain,
Distrustful of his font of joy,
Of this I feel the greatest shame,
I still recall his shiny eyes,
That man who should have been my first,
Who took away my fear of touch.
I first learned to conquer pain,
From the man who should have been my first,
But I never learned to conquer shame.