How do you tell someone? Hey, remember
about twelve years ago when you had a crush
on me but I didn't know it yet nothing
could have happened anyway because
I was married and you were a lesbian?
Remember how we threw insults like sweet nothings
while pink pleasure ballooned from our eyes?

Nineteen years younger, you sought me out.
You’d shoot rubber bands over partitions
to get my attention, but they never landed
even though I’m sure you had the skill
to sting my sensitive skin. You wrote
disguised love notes full of barbs about my age
which I treasured, recognizing the ruse.

A pierced eyebrow covered with a Band-Aid
enabled you to work in Medical Records
with your mother. You were a student
and one of the only two I shared my poetry
which you discussed with tender thought
and a sparkling insight that invigoratingly flattered.
You invited me out for drinks but I didn’t think
it would be a good idea. Diane called you a baby dyke
and expressed her jealousy, passionately desiring
a transference of your interest from me to her.

On my last day of work you spent
an inordinate amount of time composing
a lengthy poem, a glistening diorama of digs
except for the last stanza where you declared
the power I possess fills you every day. That took
my breath away, but I never said so to you.
I wish I could now, somehow, but I have no idea
how to go about it.

Posted for Poetry Pantry #112 @ Poets United</a>