I was his first, and best. I know –
That’s not how the official story goes,
But, trust me, that’s the way it was.
We were good together,
His hands tangled in my black hair,
My teeth fierce on his neck
Our moans of pleasure mingled
As I rode his firm body.
We were naked and unashamed.
The way I took control –
You may hear otherwise, but don’t be fooled.
He changed his tune, though, when I wanted independence
Outside the bedroom. That’s where *she* came in:
Made for him, he said. His perfect mate.
Her milk and water mildness,
That left her open to a serpent tongue,
Is all that he deserves, and yet
I haunt his sweaty dreams.
She lies awake and, trembling, hears
My demon daughters howling through the dark.
Notes: I didn’t fancy writing a sport themed poem, so I decided to write about a ‘first’. Better poets than I have tackled this particular piece of mythology, but I’m not altogether displeased with it.