176. On romance, as an adult.

Each time you meet him, it is accidental.
He smiles at everyone and this does not
impress you, so you don't let him touch you
until you do.

You still treat life as a schoolroom,
expecting lessons to be learned
as quickly as the snap of a rubber band
against naive summer flesh.

When a person tells you who they are,
you should believe them.

Now: Do you forgive
the letters in the wrong order?
Forgive him when he sleeps with someone
ten years your junior? And does he
forgive you, when you use him
to write about him?

Say that it is fair because with him
there is no point of safety. No soft hum
ringing in your ears the next day.

He tells you not to trust him
so you do not trust him. But you stay
out until dawn like glassy-eyed kids,
and you fall asleep smelling like him,
unsure if you enjoy it or not.

The water and the stars are calculated,
but you do not want to forget them.

175. Haiku on people you consider leaving him for (two).

A bar. The marine.
Strong hands, mouth. Promiscuous,
silver compliments.

174. Haiku on people you consider leaving him for (one).

A coworker, then.
Who is kind and tells you what
you are too good for.

173.

No, I do not miss my father.
It has been twenty-four years
and I remember little.
Waiting for me
at the bottom of the stairs,
a bridge, a car veering
off the road and settling
gently into a ditch.
But other intricacies,
like his voice? I try,
but the images come up mute.

No, I do not miss him.
But because of this, such feelings
are compounded and stumble
all over the other men I meet.
There is no grace in this.
No way to talk about it
without feeling crazy.
I worry that all this time
I've been trying to find him.
I do not need anyone,
but I would like
to be safe.

172.

So he looks at you
and then he stops
looking at you. Jealous
when another man
puts your arm in his.
He was naked and you,
you were not,
yet you argue
about vulnerability
because you hope
that neither one of you
will blossom.

171. Halloween (two).

I.
Much of it is unexpected.
The number of people circling
the park this early.


II.
The mysterious appearance of
a hole in the breast
of your favorite sweater.


III.
None of this is satisfying.
Stay late at work and that is good enough.
Draw until fingers go numb
and hair is halfway down your back.

Something in this would make him proud.
You are not far enough away, yet.


IV.
You begin to feel sick
again. Repeat:
This is not last autumn, this is not last autumn.
This is not last autumn.


V.
He wants something from you.
What? Less discernible.
You do not find out until after,
if they loved you.


VI.
A tree on the page turns red.
This is your fault.
This is always your fault.


VII.
Forget feelings. Sometimes all a person wants
to do is go home and wash their clothes
and not think about
anyone.

170. Halloween.

And when I walk home
at 6:30 in the morning with a peculiar mixture
of shame and satisfaction,
in the smallest costume I've ever dared,
tasting like morning and a hint of gin,
sparkled with a stranger:

I chronicle my life differently now.
Here is the moonlight hitting the street
that you will never see. Here I am in October
and you do not know my address.
Here is a list of mouthes that I have kissed
since yours.