Sometime this summer, over a video chat,
K asks, “But do love him?”
I say, “Like, obviously I’m in love with him,
but he’s such a freak.”
I look down, eating my ice cream and see
my Tevas on the floor next to this
awful black nail polish stain.
K says something comedic and reassuring.
She has longer hair than me
and is seeing a cute vegan guy who takes her
out places to do things. I’m so happy
for her. And it seems that I have fallen
for a vegetarian, so I feel particularly
connected with her.
“Does he know how you feel?” K is carefully
opening a door for me.
I get a certificate on the other side,
for setting a feeling in stone. K notes
that this boy and I have sparks between us.
I say, “I just like, have this feeling, ya know?
And besides, he likes my hair.”
K is squealing for me, and for whatever it’s worth,
I am squealing too. These days, I squeal
quite often. It happens when I remember him
or his drunken grin.
It starts with bluebirds in all my chakras.
I’m so afraid that when I see him I’ll burst,
but I don’t tell K.
And I don’t sleep much that night;
these transitional summers are testing us.
I smoke a gram or two of weed
and do erasures of missed connections,
and R n B songs, and Kenneth Koch poems.
I wonder if people know
that I have such a tender heart.