LIKE A TREASURE SOLD.

A MAN RECALLS A YOUNG GIRL OF HIS YOUTH.

Yehudit scarce seemed
Baruch's type; too middle
class, liberal, over educated,

the kind of young woman
who'd have been swallowed
by the Gulag camps of the

Soviet era had she been
Russian or of their domain.
But something of her charms

had penetrated his defence,
her hair or eyes or voice, he
couldn't tell, her small tits

pressing through her tops may
have decided him, he later
thought, or her intelligence

may have been the deciding
factor after all said and done.
Nonetheless, he was won. She'd

sent him a post card back from
Amsterdam, a print of Chagall
which he pinned to his door and

thought of her thin fingers touching
it, her spit on the back of the stamp,
her sacred saliva, still drying there.

Yehudit with her love of high literature
and the arts talked with him into the
small hours, rejecting his Marxist stance,

his revolutionary bite, and with her kisses
and hugs, temporarily tamed him, got
him seduced by her liberal views and ideas,

the sexuality always there, that promise,
that sudden seduction always waiting to
happen, her tight a*s, her fragile frame,

her bright blue eyes. God, he thought,
(even though  at that stage he'd lost
sight of Him) what beauty, what

charm, what a lovely a*s to behold.
And later, once she had gone from
his sight and life, and he had taken

another for a wife(later divorced),
he recalled her like a treasure sold.