There was this boy in high school who was out
of my safe circle, in
with the weed-smoking long-haired
He saw me on stage in the play. He wrote me
notes, letters about what life may mean and about
how we were meant to find out together.
“You don’t understand,’ he wrote me,
“I love you.”
I have rejected other men who wrote me,
“You don’t understand, I love you,” and
the verb trudges with such strain, as though
the act of loving me requires steroids, a bench press.
“I love you,” this boy wrote: a daisy proffered, a weightless surprise, a buoy in my old age.