Why do we try to pretend
we want anything but
to be adored? A professor I loved
confessed he started writing poems
to get women, like wearing a tattoo
revealing your heart and mind and the dexterity
of your tongue
that changes every few days.
It worked. And I
love him still. I still love
everyone I have ever loved, whether I kissed
them or not. Why do we confuse
possession with love? That March morning,
rain thawing the back yards, when I crouched
next to the foster boy who lived up the hill,
huddling together under that tiny arching tree—
the wet smell, his kind, tender hand in mine.
His absence too soon, after mere weeks,
but my greened heart still sending tendrils out
into the dark.
Katherine Riegel, from The Lightning Key Review