Her creamy strap was sin itself; a mark
Of woman. Bosoms hid beneath the mask
Of Cotton, next her silver cross, ‘tween bones
Like knees outspread. Who is more insulted?
She whose form betrays, or the boyish ways
Of him that make such tigress beggars of
His Kind. A pure Youth, for a separate life –
Dry lips and cold sheets, crisp as morning plastic.
You are pink. Those spots, my dear, are fine –
My God! How much more precious must you be than sheep?
Whose wool is flecked with dirt and still they graze;
Precious as bleached wool, but ne’er to drink
For Fear of Shredded Throat. You put it on
Your sweet skin and are damaged; you must not
Gasp when in your lace, it sheds.
Lois E. Linkens