Monthly grey girlhood recedes before me,
Soon– a woman of my own, bearing,
The woe of no man; Why then ladies spur
To rein in and rest atop backs of strong
Stallions– trusting– nay, relying on feet,
Not their own– 'less death or adultery, they part.
Not I though, not yet. Shergar, thou which
Want may, shall not be my mount, not today.
Yet, was my will done. Still my branded flesh
Keeps Reason at bay. I believed to be,
The one who knocks– though thy brand itch each day.
So scratch, I may, and ooze painfully each
Part away, until I restore wholly
Myself, a woman grown– a woman known.