I have bathed in you long.
I have doused your crystals
on the strands of my hair.
I have welcomed you,
splashing your waves
against my thighs.
I have lived through you.
But now I let the arid sun
burn me dry.
Your sweet cool
bubbles do not belong on my skin
anymore.
Find another home
pain,
I can, I will,
cut you free.
A bastard father,
I need no bastard son.
1980s
Anne's mediocre poetry 