He told me he loved me physically
and turned what he loved into poetry.
Is the physical more physical
when translated as spiritual?
Should I have been afraid
when the poetry which came to his aid
worshiped me as his sole aim
and the body was never to blame?
Whenever I moved—
in that place in limb and face he loved
me in all that I physically was
and I could feel his acute despair
when he couldn’t be there.
Now that I am fifty
he doesn’t write me poetry—
I left him abruptly long ago—
the abrupt symbolizing physical
failure? Fear? I don’t know.
Now at fifty I admit I begin to sigh
thinking whether the physical can be spiritual
or is this an elaborate lie?
What is it about physical pride and men?
What can the womb and the grave buy?
What was that then?