Notes for Further Study


You are a nobody

until another man leaves

a note under your wiper:

I like your hair, clothes, car—call me!

Late May, I brush pink

Crepe Myrtle blossoms

from the hood of my car.

Again spring factors

into our fever. Would this

affair leave any room for error?

What if I only want

him to hum me a lullaby.

To rest in the nets

of our own preferences.

I think of women

I’ve loved who, near the end,

made love to me solely

for the endorphins. Praise

be to those bodies lit

with magic. I pulse

my wipers, sweep away pollen

from the windshield glass

to allow the radar

detector to detect. In the prim

light of spring I drive

home alone along the river’s

tight curves where it bends

like handwritten words.

On the radio, a foreign love

song some men sing to rise.