Won
Stalk me in the tall grass
like you did the summer
I was eighteen.
I remember how I liked
your smile and the way
you could whistle
the July heat through
lips heavy with wine.
You said you liked girls
who made homes
wherever they went
and wore too much perfume;
whose legs tanned easily
and rustled under their skirts
as they strolled through the city.
I liked how your hands
were masters –
how they reached
out to grab anything
in their way,
owning what they touched
and making me believe
I was not a woman
to be won easily.
Burlesque Press 