By virtue of being a woman alone,
there are men who assume interest
on my part must be personal and
sexual. This is not true
of all men—only those I have met: or not met:
or smiled at: or passed in the street.
A free-floating assumption, I know, adrift
beneath words, making it almost a favor
when a man I was partnered with
at a conference introduced himself
as very, very married, giving me a chance
to relieve him directly
by declaring myself very, very lesbian:
a thin-bright, only slightly bitter lie,
and nothing like real desire, which is more
violent: unswerving: rare.
You are here now,
face hidden in hands, refusing again
to believe in a beginning that keeps bringing
us back to this point
of leaving: my leaving, yours. I tell you to
step into this moment, toward another
and another, toward me, but the truth is
you will make of me what you can, and I
have to let you
return to before I existed, real desire wanting real
erasure: days months years
I have stood nearly fifty in this body,
long enough
to grow unashamed of want without trying
to make an art of it. Long enough to know
what I have: each night
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