POEM

The lover

by Sina Queyras

He still manages to paint. At least he shows up at dinner with splotches on his pants and cap, though never, she notices, on his face. His shoulders touch his ears and are curved, like wings, she thinks, his head always about to go under. When she stands behind him in the dinner line she wants to put her head between his blades and pull. She is afraid his heart might crack. He keeps busy, the lover. He walks to the bar in town where he has heard they have fights. He plays pool badly, and loses. Afternoons he tosses a baseball, always only at first base. The one he loves has red hair and is firm. He will not have her, and perhaps he knows this already. Still, at midnight he finds her yellow room and slips under the door. He believes in everything about her. But the best thing is how she fits him: how she lies on top of him like a cat in a bowl.