An Israeli Reservist Poem by Bernard Henrie

The startled
goldfish stares from emerald water, hovers
over the green rocks that color his tank.

My wife returns from swimming, wet, cool,
calm in a mattched yellow bandana and bikini.

We first met as students, expecting only coffee
and a sweet roll, but we made love three times
that year until we learned what to do.

Military service, marriage and love sometime
at three AM in the dog-eared morning light,
once in the Red Sea buoyant and slick as fish;

later my recall orders arrived. You've traveled
through the Occupied Zone to reach me.
We mill two-handfulls of red coffee beans
and wait patiently as the electric fire opens
them before us.

Our nostrils fill with rich aroma.
The hotel room drains away light, you ask
if I want you again this afternoon.

I am reminded of our first awkward
intimacy. Our questions.

She has no underpants, no clothes
and will not lie down, she half-stands,
leaning against the dresser; in the glass
I see myself, priapic and distented;
my fingerprints and breath guide along
from her instep, to the underarms,
pant at the reddened mouth
and recondite sex.

Nearing the outskirts of memory, I cannot
think what to pray at the Wailing Wall,
the Jerusalem Post pushed aside falls,
my military orders on the dresser
and while making love I lose my place.
　
　





The startled
goldfish stares from his emerald water,
hovers over the green rocks that color his tank.
You step into our hotel room bath wet
and naked except for sunglasses.

We first met as students, expecting
only coffee and a sweet roll, but we made love
three times that year until we learned what to do.

Military service, marriage and love sometime
at three AM in the dog-eared morning light,
once in the Red Sea buoyant and slick as fish;

later my recall orders. You've traveled
through the Occupied Zone to reach me.

We mill two-handfulls of red coffee beans
and wait patiently for their drip as the electric
fire opens them before us.

Our nostrils fill with rich aroma. The hotel room
drains away light, you ask if I want you again
this afternoon.
I am reminded of our first awkward intimacy.

Without underpants, without any clothes all day,
she does not want to lie down and half-stands,
leaning against the dresser, in the glass
I see myself, priapic and distented; my fingerprints
and breath guide along from her instep to the underarms,
pant at the reddened mouth and recondite sex.

Nearing the outskirts of memory, I cannot think
what to pray at the Wailing Wall,
the Jerusalem Post pushed aside and falls,
i see military orders on the dresser and while
making love I lose my place.










The startled goldfish looks over from his emerald water,
your wet skin from the bath or Red Sea while you wash
and I shave.

We only expected coffee and a sweet roll at the aluminum
canteen truck, but during Passover and High Holy Days
we made love three times until we learned what to do.

You dangle a slipper off the cherry tip of your sunburned
toe, lazily turn through a magazine or sketch in your book
for professor Diebenkorn, still alive then.

I sit shirtless, my call-up orders for Sinai lucid on the desk.
The goldfish stares blankly like General Sharon, brain dead
in his Jerusalem hospital ward.

You have traveled in the Occupied Zone to reach me,
but even with our experience I am reminded of the first
awkward times we made love.