I met her in the summer of ninety-two
Unapologetic eyes and a voice that stirred
Awful conversations among those asking Who
Is this woman with a tongue – like sour curd.
To the men she’d lend more than a hand
To the women – merely a glance.
She wanted the world – Italy, Austria and France
But her judgement, oh, it bound her
Like her untainted, unproductive hands.
That summer – I learnt things new
Like what it’s like to stay in bed
With or without You.
I grew to appreciate the back of my palm
And over think stories that only did harm.
My life soon bubbled
Into an overdrawn wisp of cyanide
Yet, you continued – strung me around
With a smile that is just as wide.