My hand is on

My hand [it’s on a Jewish bride‘s
breast]/ No other connections to
that once-woman – she is lost to
her darkness – of no more being
[now] precise enough to find out
my face/

As others taste her soft
compress of rarely-burnt skin – it
smelt of swimming pool chlorine
[to me – only to me – it was mine]
& other mens’ breaths – of booze
& fags & her mouth of stale cock
spat out my last shreds of dignity