Someone should hymn Sarah, of the
bounteous breasts and gentle smile:
Sarah, who could hold her own
drinking beer; who could make
Brownian Motion make sense in a
heathen’s mind; who had the
balls to take a
timid boy’s virginity; be
generous about those
first fumblings; could
laugh afterwards at the
misapprehension of the stains of
vigorous sex on
cheap pink sheets.
Someone should hymn Sarah,
kind ravisher of innocence, and
since it was I, it
should be me.
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