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Jane Nightwork

Flat on my back

in the black grass,

daisies, like fallen stars

about my face,

and his hand

up my petticoats

and heading slowly north.

We haven’t got all night.

I am his first time.

He is fifteen.

Our clothes fall, rustling, to the ground

and he is on me, gasping, urgent,

shivering between fear and lust.

My fingers skim his chest, feel

the soft skin, the beating heart beneath.

Flat on my back

in the black grass,

open as earth

and he the plowman.

Afterwards he wept – they often do

that first time, then

I kissed away his tears

and we danced again.

Underneath his cloak we lay

and watched the circling stars until

dizzy with their reeling,

we fell asleep.

The moon had tilted, tipped

her bowl of light

so the air shimmered,

each field spiked with frost,

and the river slithered sleek

as quicksilver

through the sooty dark.

We dressed, backs turned

and took our separate ways,

each nursing our delight, and shame

like Eve and Adam

that first night in Eden.

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