Regarding that First Sex in Brank's Field

By John Grey

The field was all weeds and ditches

where dark water sat, so mosquitoes could breed,

shaded by oaks that kept their own counsel

and the one standing wall of an abandoned farmhouse.

Her skin, sunburnt, flaked like paint,

as my ringers fumbled with bra strap

and pigeons chortled from a rickety fence,

dandelions sprouted between toes.

I do believe that places choose us;

like something overgrown and unclean

for overgrown and unclean moments in our lives.

We were unwitting designers. This was our design.

It was over fast like it almost never happened,

later shaken off like a childhood disease,

lying dormant, to reawaken later in life,

still a sickness but masquerading as a cure..

John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in Oyez Review, Rockhurst Review and Spindrift with work upcoming in New Plains Review, Leading Edge and Louisiana Literature.