by John Grey At the far end of the park, beyond the bandstand, we sat on damp grass in the dark to nibble on chips, sip wine, and listen to a female poet describe her first time having sex with another woman. She read by flashlight, line after line of a scary but exciting encounter while insect clouds closed in on her audience. Was it as good for her as mosquito bites were bad for us, I wondered. When she found herself slapping was she as soft and gentle as we were murderous and hard. By the end of the poem, our limbs were bloody. If hers were, she didn't mention it. Not even as a metaphor. But then again mosquito wasn't even her second choice. Copyright 2018. All rights reserved.
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