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LAce Posted Monday, November 21st, 2005
She Reads Romance — and alas — Barbara Cartland Lives On?
Judy Cabito

She wove a picture with her words
A mixture of some nouns and verbs.
She wrote them here so I could read.
stepping out with fantasy.

Moved me away from my bedroom
and my wedding vows with the beast,
he who sleeps not so silently
here under our muslin sheets.

Dark and cold I read on of the
Erotic-built, sexy sultan.
A hero, tall and muscular;
sweating love like some awesome cure.

Bending up to reach my lips, he
whispered sticky sweet promises,
dreams, and many things. His face hot,
his chest hard, his hands roam freely

and mine turned to chapter thirty.
And so it went this feverish tale
of murder, sex, and creamy lust. A
story filled with hope and glory

yet in the bedroom light, I saw
my loves virtues bright. His kisses
have been so real, so tender, so — "So what," I
said slipping further into this book of smut.

Hours flip by and on into page
four thousand. The hero vowed, a
wedding bell tolled, for a setting sun,
ocean spray, oven off,

Mr. Clean, scrubbing dens of
iniquity — "What the hell?"
What's the big idea? What's the name
of this book? Author! Author!

Me and all those heroines
fooled into thinking that written
romance ascends the page and
fills our lonely world with happiness?

And slips under the clovers,
changing the very script of our lives
fooling us into believing
we’ll have — oh, indeed — some romantic
novel ending?

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