You sat low with me then
against the foot of the bed
in the week after my father died.
I put my head in your lap
and I wanted you,
and I went cold with shame
for my wanting you.
I said, nobody knows who my father was.
I did not mean it.
Even you knew who my father was.
It was a bad room I led you to:
I knew that I repulsed you.
Also that you would never say so.
I asked you then:
is there shame in it?
I could not afford shame
in the week after my father died.
—Netanel Schwartz
