HARD MORNING

It was a difficult morning for us: the light wasn’t kind.
All at once I looked fat. I preferred to shower alone.
You got ready in the bedroom, put on a white shirt,
the one, I think, in which you were married the first time,
and the night continued to clot into morning.
The tone of my voice when I pushed you: ‘I can’t, not now,’
and you slowly circle; you don’t say a word, and how
is it that I remember my Hungarian uncle Earl shouting ‘puszi, puszi, girl’.
Be’er Sheva. I was small. His shirt had filled
with sweat when he ran after the car to ask me for a kiss –
in fact, he wore a tank top, but what would this precision recover?
He shouted ‘puszi, pussy, girl’. That is what you should know,
he shouted ‘pussy, pussy, girl’.

בוקר קשה

בוקר קשה