Handshake
Posted by Marion Smallwood | Filed under Poetry, Print
i’m a gentleman, you said.
a hopeful romantic, i thought.
a loose eyelash, a fleshy daydream,
a constant reminder to pray.
here’s what went unimagined:
we exchange stories and swap the endings,
hardly noticing how neatly my shoulder tucks under your arm,
or how your hand recites the poetry in my back,
skipping over the lines that are about someone else.
we forget just to practice remembering.
you tell me about my details,
about how entering my flesh is like stepping into the same river twice
about what i feel like midday in july,
you told me which of my smiles is the aftermath of a laugh,
the wreckage is sideways.
we learn each other like we’re something to pass and take again
a great class, a flying color, a love note, the salt from across a long table.
i gotta park in my skull for you to walk through,
a thought in my palm for you to hold—hold that thought,
i promise to be right back.
i promise that things won’t be like they’ve been.
let me show you how much you can carry on that back,
how well you can see in the dark,
what is possible to hear and know and write in a journal.
but the universe is a prankster and timing is everything.
let me tell you what actually happened:
our lips didn’t even touch.
you smiled and i blushed.
you told me the color was crimson
but i didn’t believe you.
you shook my hand and said you were a gentleman.
you told me your name, but i only remembered hers.
the universe has a cruel sense of humor.
it skips to the punch line, shows us the world has fists.
it gambles with a life spread across both sides of a coin.
i wanted him knowing not even the thought of him was mine.
and we all know what happens when you laugh too hard.
