It’s a wonder I’m not kinkier, exposed so young
to ecstasy of martyrs—Sebastian pierced with arrows,
Teresa in her spastic arch, eyes rolling white on visions,

and weekends, entranced by men in masks,
one who reared his huge horse Hi Ho,
and one caped in black, with a rapier.

The pale neighborhood perv
never came close, he flashed and fled
in dearth of imagination.

Summer evenings, to the sting and slap
of mosquitoes, we wild children
chased each other round the well house,

and I held my wrists above my head,
whipped my hair from side to side
when captured, unknowing shade

of the Sabine women, their heads
thrown back, tangle of thighs
in the arms of their conquerors.