Villa Philmonte

Near Cimarron, a scout camp sprawled—
a smorgasbord for my virgin lips.
The dusty, cracked shrub encased perfect
bluegrass and a terracotta villa
with trophy heads of gazelles, buffalo hides,
and an ivory keyed piano.
But outside someone not so exotic attracted me.
My finger curved, beckoning the faux-cowboy
to follow me down a dirt trail to a dead
tree grove. Famished hands wandered up my back
and I pulled them away. Mouth clamping,
teeth carved my lips. The cowboy
only held back because of a black
tag and white garments.
I left for my tent, trying to hide
my swollen face.

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