in praise of older women (sonnet)

He can't be more than nineteen and yet I'm
sure that in a past life I once enjoyed
that same boy, that same body. A lifetime
of love gone. He played with my clit. I toyed
with his cock. Back when I had time for games.
I have grown older and he is unchanged
(or a boy who looks like him) Nothing shames
me. Sex always made me obscene, deranged.
Fire. He is my son's age. I could be his
mother. Fire. He made me burn once. Before
it all turned sour. All my knowledge: a whiz
at blowjobs. I can teach you, boy. Amour
still burns, I promise you. Make me nineteen
again, boy. Bad, mad, rude, lewd and obscene.