Small, secret clearing

Surrounded by woods

Fallen tree resembling

A riding horse, rope

Hung for the stirrups

A child pretends

Herself a cowgirl

Riding fast, like

The wind, Run:

Run fast to escape

He brings her here

Says no, we won’t

Do that stuff this

Day, he lied: she

Sees the bulge

He can’t help it

Little girl, your hot

Makes his thing

Grow, now you have

To take care of it

Kiss it little girl

No I won’t: then

We’ll have to do

The other: Fear

Her closest companion

She was me, I

Was her, my

Stomach aches, my

Head jerks away,

Which way did I choose?

-Betsy-

April 1987