Born Once
For several weeks we barely slept.
She stretched out her arms for me
to lie with her in summer’s grass.
Across the creek a revival meeting
was gaining momentum, old time
religion in an outdoor pavilion,
where above the altar Ye Must
Be Born Again was written big.
“Christ,” she cried, “be born once first.
I’m tired of summer flings.”
Dad used to say that when winter crept in,
on chilly nights, I’d want a good wife,
someone worth looking after.
That summer next to last, she revealed
something new each day, flashing me
a shapely ankle, hitching up her dress,
showing off her garter belt, half
complaining her former lovers
hadn’t cherished her enough.
“Or maybe you’ve forgotten,”
I suggested.
©James L. Ralston