Men, women, different places, and they told me I
Would be there too if I tossed my hair like Boudicca
And hitched my skirt to my thighs in that fight for
Survival. Different blades, nicks, valley-ridges
In a skin of rivers, sweats, touches that remind the legs
They're to stay parted as the Iceni tribe and their Celtic
Passions. Yet, do I refuse you, Roman? Watch me veil
My chest and wipe my lids of that gauzy cover!
I clamp shut thighs and tug shut blouses, undo hair
And let your lusts stab the soft folds of my stomach.
I refuse you, Roman; I am not for touching, taking,
For I stand on my own, without different places
To lead to my living, and I trample to my
Raw, bloody death with a wound of contentment
Spearing my chest.