"You gave me the book," I told him,
"I'm just the reader." As if! I'm totally guilty
of reading his mother's poetry book
and I can't look at him the same.
You shouldn't do that to a person—
give them poetry written about you,
especially poems from a woman who loved you
in a past tense I wasn't there to read.
So I read his book about him and now
the latent attraction between him and me,
the force like gravity that pulls me toward all men
has strengthened quite intolerably.
Of course, this being my life
he's happily in love with a woman
half a world away, and I forgot
to bring my mother's poetry with me.