I want a man I can read poetry to.
(I don’t care that that isn’t grammatically correct.)
I don’t suppose
it’s politically correct either, or that it conforms
to the notions of gender stereotypes we seem to carry
around like luggage packed,
too-heavy for a two-day trip.
I want a lover of poetry, too, or at least
a lover of words of some sort.
(Beautiful, blunt, lyrical, harsh.)
If he doesn’t feel exactly the same way I do,
that’s fine. He doesn’t need the tightness
in my chest, the way words are a hand
squeezing at my heart; he just needs to feel something
for the ink-stains and dusty pages.
But…I want to be able to call you, smiling,
when I finish reading – or writing –
some silverbright phrases. I want to hold them up to the light,
(Beaming and proud and hysterical that beauty exists in this way.)
to the light that is you, dear, and I want you
to shine them back at me. Only I’m worried that you aren’t
the one I can read poetry to.
– – –
Rough draft. Thoughts?