4/2026 (c)
I can’t picture it now—
the celibacy Michael and I vowed in 1976
when we were seventeen and nineteen.
He moved from Washington to Texas
and I thought it was love.
In 1872 England,
the age of consent for prostitutes
was raised from twelve to thirteen.
I was never a prostitute,
though Michael’s friends suspected I was.
They reported every indiscretion—
a hallway conversation with another boy,
that joy ride with friends in Victor’s cloth-top.
My virtue proved through betrothal
bound me—a chastity belt,
wrapped feet, that wouldn’t carry me away.
