Sex Game Lark 1964. Poem by Terry Collett

I thought of Milka
most of the evening
while listening
to the Elvis LP
or watching TV,
or later in bed
next to my younger brother
him asleep,
and I under the covers
with my small
white transistor radio
playing Radio Luxembourg.

I thought about the first time
we had sex in the woods
behind the farm house
where she lived
with her parents
and brothers,
how we lay
on my jacket
in amongst bushes,
birds overhead,
branches with the sun
blinking through at us,
sounds of traffic
going past
on the farm road
now and then,
and us lying there
exhausted after our first effort,
and she said:
Think that's how it's done.

I said nothing
(not wanting to say
yes it is or she would say:
how do you know?)
just lay there
watching her
breathing deep:
suppose it is,
I said eventually.

She smiled:
now I know
when other girls
say about it
and probably don't do it:
anyway that I have,
she said.

The radio was playing
some American woman
singing about breaking a heart
and not going to Heaven
if you do.

My brother stirred;
and I turned off
the radio
and lay in the dark
musing on Milka,
and what she called
our sex game lark.