The Wounded Nymph Seeks Comfort

In The Joy Of Her Previous Life

William de Kypia

If you had some tits you’d be a real fox the guy

says big hands cupping what little she’s got.

Yeah a bit more on top you’d turn some heads

roughly bending her backward onto the bed.

But don’t you fret Darlin’ we’re gonna get there.

Abandoned thighs spread she ceases to care.

The lovers breaststroke, backstroke across

dirty sheets, bodies advancing as minds retreat. 

She moves, gives, and she grabs her own share. 

Two minutes later they come up for air.

Hey that wasn’t bad Babe not bad at all. 

Pops a beer for the road, says he might call.


Many men love her an hour or a night. 

But there was a time--until her big bosomed

best friend soul-shifted to whore--when the man

she still loves made her believe in love evermore.

Their life was something built out of sand. 

She’s a grain of that sand brushed from his hand.

Yet in the sweat of her bed she smells the sweet

brine she would lick from his flesh if he’d let her.


She’d always been smart.

With him she was clever, 

mind sparkling quicksilver

when they came together.

She’d always been shy.

With him two were many  

and when there were many

they remained two.

She knew she was pretty. 

With him she became bold. 

And there once was a day,

a day she would hold.


They skip-dodge the breakers rolling

in from the East. She hears even now

those surges pounding their beach. 

Accepting his dare she plunges into a crest

and a slender wet nymph rises out of the

ocean wearing only a tie-dye shirt. 

Breathless both watch her take off that

shirt.  Lovers couple naked, shameless,

then a man to his lady vows Love me for life,

I will love you to death.  Till maidens turn wanton

and men become beasts, or worse or worse,

let my words stand that long at least.

If there were signs and portents--

    shorebirds fleeing seaward in horror,

    conchs trumpeting the storm’s approach--

these were unseen by love-dazzled eyes,

unheard for the roaring heartsurf that

welled in her blood when he spoke. 


Days before were mighty. 

Days to come will soar like a goddess

coursing the heavens, consort at her side. 

But this one was special, their bestest

ever,  the day she should have died. 

So she plucks it now from their ruined beach

to hang its wonder on the walls of a room

where she lies in the pool of her wine-dark

life dreaming the sleep of the loved.