Small Dole

There – Careful – it takes us up
with a broken concrete offering
to David’s uneven heat-scratched lawn
of bastard grasses and inveterate weeds –

unintended God stuff
but enough to sow doubts
Still – we can cut them out
without too much effort –
for now

A weed is a flower
without a lover
a friend had said – as well as
his stern dictum of
Michael – never marry a woman

That Israeli summer of sweat
between Anat’s wet thighs
was his concern and my lust –
Michael – she said – I love your brother

Clackety-clack – they sang –
as a rattled song of songs –
those flitting overnight sprinklers
spun once our local nuclear option
had dropped to eight o’clock

David could name every living thing
as if God had passed down his crown
We walked together – he looped
with his now-trademark swagger

in his Sussex-rooted garden
of kind disregard for fixed horticulture
And there was my first instance of knowing
that a shared disease is ours to reap

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