I know that hand the way I know
my own. Better, perhaps.
I rarely stroke myself that way.
We do this now, honoring tradition.
An old dance, well rehearsed. A joy,
so easy, so familiar to perform.
At times your body, well rehearsed
in answering to need,
speaks joy in the old dance. At times
it dances fear of failure, climbing tenses past.
Wings spread, I take you in, tense climbing
not from fear of failure, but anticipating need.
Love lurks behind our eyes, anticipating death.
Copyright © 1999 Miryam Ehrlich Williamson. All rights reserved.Next poem