Ploughing

I clasped one of your cold buttocks
and dipped to thoughts of other such
comforts – way before my mislaid zeal
had become this sloth-by-illness –

I had once worked my younger body –
when thinner – stiffer – able to bend
to the exacting task of hard love –
before this dreary exhaustion set in –

I am among the suburbs of Tel Aviv –
I eat with a woman and the father of her child –
Thirty years before their daughter was born
I had screwed my hostess – pale under curls –

there without the furrows of motherhood –
those folds of parenthood – now lodged –
Old positions – and my long exertions –
are no longer my first weapon of choice

I watch her serve our meal – as a ritual –
common to their habits and grace –
Even with the confusions of Hebrew
misunderstanding is removed from here –

My history is such codes – of recall and sex –
of finding what had been lost is then dug up
by the slice of smithy-honed ploughs –
all I have been will be turned over once more

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