I lifted my old lovers into the bath, I wanted at a
glance the thing, the one I had
loved, most or less, perhaps or certainly, unconditionally
or on condition. In a tub as long as a galleon
the synchronised
washing of each other's back, each with a piece of soap
blue-veined, after which with shoulders
scrubbed open till they bled
they walked away. Except one, you, whom I
hooked myself behind, legs round trunk, to wait
together right through the other
for the unbearable cooling of the water.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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