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.
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