ask Marcelino if he still remembers

when he was yet four years
and Maya was yet five on this very bed

where Maya just woke up one morning,
he kissed her.

he stole a kiss from her lips and from his
short pants, that of a child, loose and transparent

i have seen how hard his thing was
to my disbelief arising as it was from a very young boy

with milk on its tongue. And Maya too liked it.
There was no anger in her face.

Freud must be right. One cannot take for granted
the tick that sticks on the eggs of men
inflamming them.

One cannot take for granted the lust of the past.
They still haunt. They still confuse. They can still make us crazy.

Look under your pants.The difference is just the lush of the black hair.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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