So full-fertile round.

The earth, French soil,

the scent of Pressigny. Endless

fields of straw-dry sunflowers,

manors with their scented armoires.

Love, this is our country.

All week we explore,

you chase me down the rue,

my blue schoolgirl clip holds

my hair as it flies. I am a girl.

I am a woman. Never have we

seen such curves. Oh, Christ,

you say, I always wanted a

girlfriend with a body like yours!

A wink and a nod for emphasis.

Gosh, I have grown! self-conscious

and curious, nights I palm each

breast, feel the comfort of the weight,

the cream –pearlescent, it gleams.

I am all heat and want. Crimson-

cheeked. Love, I am swollen.

I ache with desire, perfume Paris

with my heat. Amber and quince,

our pomegranate feast.

In the cool of the house

you have found me, trembling

amd alight. Cornered,

my pale slip flutters. So nervous,

I stutter. The town church bell

tolls. All afternoon you take me

beneath the fine, thin cotton as you

chart each new curve,

where you plot each new mark.