Threshold

I still get a kick out of the visuals accompanying my memories of “the first time”. His name was Albrecht. One of his eyes always looked tired.


Once I was in love with a blond angel.
His curls almost hid his tired eyes.
Before I knew his caresses,
I was suspicious
of touch and saliva,
of hands on my breasts and thighs,
of the scent reminding me of pulsing death.
His casual love, insisting to be unimportant
opened me to the first waves of woman love.
The indigenous girl stood by watching shyly,
with a dirty face.
Mute, with a hollow space to throw words into,
she watched as this ancient ache arose, quivered,
and broke to pieces.

How did it all begin?
In a sunlit, apricot room
with the silhouette of an African tree
above the desk.
Church bells next door.
A baking house across the street.
Many women arrive with balls of dough,
marked by a symbol of ownership.
Man in blue
hacks wood,
with two front teeth missing.
Orderly bookshelves and an heirloom rug,
too expensive to throw away,
too ugly for the main house,
so Mother gave it to me.

We had tongued each other for weeks,
then laid down on the quilt
Mother had made for my 21st birthday.
He moved on top of me,
as I searched for feelings.
I am a woman now . . .
On his white T-shirt,
a blond Viking smiled confidently at me.
His halo read:
Virgin maidens register here.
Is it allowed to laugh during sex?
Sex was so serious that my mother's eyes
always looked wounded,
when she came out of the bedroom,
bravely resuming her chores.
My stepfather appeared shortly thereafter,
adjusting his leather belt
in a triumphant gesture.

I run into the kitchen
looking into my mother's gray eyes.
I must look different.
She has to notice.
I am a woman now.