II. DAVID

When I think of David

I don’t think of a skinny clapped-out

senile king

growling over the juicy young bones

of his latest concubine –

nor a hot-eyed paunchy poacher

of lesser men’s wives,

the remote-control murderer

if the cuckolds are a bother –

nor a father sobbing

over his beloved hair-strangled enemy

and eldest son –

nor a shining darling

pledging himself to Jonathan

with the amulet of his breath –

nor Jerusalem’s poet-in-waiting

lulling black-dogged Saul

with the narcotic of song.

When I think of David

I crave to be his favourite

and swing too

that psalm lasso

that caught and held forever

a remote hard god’s pleasure.