It was Yeats who took me. I was seventeen,
In love with watery consonants, with boys.
But Yeats would show me what my life could mean.
Afraid of men, yet drawn, a sucker for looks –
I studied his dark forelock, his sweet mouth.
It was Yeats who took me, I was seventeen.
My best friend’s boy, another bow-lipped wonder,
Took me for screaming rides on a Norton 850.
But Yeats would show me what my life would mean.
I talked the boyfriend silly, held off advances
Until the time I couldn’t. And yet, and yet….
It was Yeats who took me! I was seventeen
And ready to believe words spoken to shells,
Because he was so lonely, like me, so weird.
Yeats would show me what my life could mean.
I clung to that great body. His delight
In love, and loss, and water, and swans was mine!
It was Yeats who took me, (I was seventeen),
And showed me, word by word, what life could mean.
Fiction - ISSUE #28