by Ryan Stone
The first time I saw her naked
I blushed, despite imagining her often
unclothed -- long caramel legs
arabesque honed, perhaps a soft tuft
to cover their tryst. I'd dreamt
creamy breasts with rose petal tips
that would stiffen and rise
in the moonlight.
The first time I saw her naked,
I stood with her mother --
the woman who bore her,
and the boy who adored her,
alone with death in the room.