Poem by Richard George
First Aphrodites have a raw deal.
The Angevin blonde in my village Sirened
every yeoman with a pitchfork: lush and lithe seventeen,
she knew her dominion.
I, two years younger, peeped through our net
curtains: she saw me and grinned
mirthlessly. First Eros hurt.
So I pushed her under the bed
and then threw her in the rubbish with old school work.
Her breath went bad
from the will o' wisp of midnight
Vauxhall dashboards in lay-bys that went nowhere.
She was a woman too soon,
clowned with lipstick by greasers with a handbrake
where emotions should be.
The last time I glimpsed her I felt pity.
A blonde, on a production line.
I grinned, less than mourning
what she would not become
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