You don't think of these things in Jerusalem

Two or three times a year
we swam, marco-poloed
guided by underwater lights
and speeding cars on a Kyalami highway.

We insisted on staying in the deep end
lifting our bodies out
only after sunset
palms flat on wet, hot brick
as chlorine-liquid swept
down, back, in on itself
creating waterfalls
on our spines.

After we dried off,
Rudi lit roman candles
and gave me his purple shirt
from Guatamela to wear.

Then
he grew a beard
and outgrew us.

His Guatamelan shirt still fits.