I had never had a breath stir the hair along the nape of my neck until a man called the woman out of me, knowing I was untouched, untried, but yearning to feel one breathless moment in someone's arms. I did not know the lips of a man much less the thighs,
when I was first asked to bed.
And after a day's and night's deliberation, accepted. That was me: nothing on a whim back then. Everything thought through. I had for months been resorting morals to clear the way for love's approach. But no one came. All my college friends saw me as I saw myself: completely unbeautiful, completely lost in logic's cold embrace.
How stiffly I sat on his couch - a statue with sweaty palms. Unable the first date to even touch back, I had to learn from distrust of any hand all the way to lovemaking - a crash course in six weeks - until I would allow him to enter
And pound that hot sweet pain into me,
Pound to the music of moans,
Cracking the husk of childhood,
To release the pulp of woman:
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem