More than she appeared

Manet - Portrait of a Horsewoman
There was something mad
about it, an introduction of a
noted horsewoman in words
that said she was nothing
more than she appeared,
an ordinary, anonymous human
being, and yet we shared an
instantaneous intimacy as close
and as clear as a pair
of long-standing lovers.

They might have equally said
she was a virgin, said it credibly,
I would have agreed.
As if I cared, she could have been
everything and anything;
I knew nothing about her
except for her long, blonde
hair, mercurial wit, the
pair of mischievous eyes, those
magnificent thrusting tits.

In the glare of a fire that
evening we discovered
measureless nakedness,
explored the boundaries
of bodies aching in delirium,
tasted feverish liquors
spiced with salty tang,
sonorously rang again
and again the bells
of intense pleasure.

When the fires burned to a
gentle glow I learned about
her, the horses she rode,
where her referent self resided.
She chided me,
the less you know is best,
I swear that even
with what you know now
you will not understand
me in the morning. I am 

a child of my time, while
my parents and I have
parted ways, I will marry the
man they approve who
loves me. Until then I desire
every boy with dove-soft
eyes, will ride them relentlessly
until their stiff cocks
are limp and crying, lock
them in the stable of my mind.

For three months, out of sheer
lust and madness our reveries
renewed – the self-indulgence
did not interfere with her
equestrian privacy, and when
she announced, I can’t come
next weekend,
or possibly the next,
I’m getting married,

then I was visibly shaken.
She said with that deep,
enigmatic smile, instead
of grieving, I should
be greatly relieved.
© I.D. Carswell