Most of them were warnings, I know now,

cautions against the snares of the world

and the dangers

that come with growing up.

There was a ribbon round her throat,

or so one such story went,

and she had a curious husband.

One night,

their wedding night,

he couldn’t resist temptation

any longer

and so discovered that sometimes it’s best

to not try and undo the past,

to leave well enough alone

the knots tied with dark ribbon

by other fingertips

long ago.

Looking back,

I wonder what became of him.

He must have been so frightened,

so young,

no idea what he had done

with his loving, curious fingers.

I wonder what happened to him,

after she lost her head

and had the last word:

”I . . . told . . . you . . . you’d . . . be . . . sorry…”

(or so the story goes)

A cautionary tale for all who might one day grow up

to love and be loved.

It’s her story, really

and, as children, we couldn’t help

but feel bad for her

somehow,

ill-used by a man

who was just too curious

or too selfish

to listen to her warnings.

That’s what I thought then,

but now I find

that my sympathies have shifted

somewhat

and I wonder

what happened to him.

Did he,

some other night

years later,

did he find himself

finally

in bed again,

frightened and shaking

as he kissed the sleek pale neck

of a new love?